


These Things We Do

by NightingaleSong



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightingaleSong/pseuds/NightingaleSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock ruins yet another of John's potential relationships. Things start to change at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"What?" Sherlock's head snapped up at the sudden crash and rustle of shopping bags dropped carelessly on the kitchen floor.

"Oh, nothing," came the gritted response as John shook off his rain-soaked coat and flapped it pointedly, sending a spray of cold droplets over the determinedly blank face of his irritating flatmate. "Just getting the milk, bread, beans, you know - stuff we need to survive.  Like I do every single bloody day." John's voice rose and and he rubbed his hand quickly through his short, blond hair in frustration. 

"Can you do it quietly please? This is rather a critical phase."  Sherlock dropped his gaze back to the selection of Erlenmeyer flasks littering the kitchen table.  John glanced over them quickly, not wanting to even consider what the fleshy masses fizzing gently in the bottom of at least three of them might be.  "Tea please, as we finally have milk."  Sherlock obviously anticipated complete acquiescence to his demand and he started writing quick, flowing notes across a pad of cream paper.

"Finally? .... Finally? You complete mor.... " John spluttered, a flush of anger spreading across his throat.  He stood still, sighed, took several breaths.  Sherlock did not move his eyes from the page. "Ok.  Tea.  Fine."  It was no good.  He knew when to push his point.  Tea-making was not one of those times.  Grabbing the kettle roughly, he walked to the sink, sighing again as he saw the collection of petri dishes, mugs, plates and pipettes deposited within, and winced with the realisation that none were even as much as rinsed.  "Sherlock. We've talked about this. You have to keep your experiments away from things we use for eating.  It's just not healthy."

Lost in thought, Sherlock hummed noncommittally.   Managing to fill the kettle without disturbing the detritus in the sink, John switched it on to boil.   He rummaged in the cupboards for two mugs that looked relatively hygienic and dropped a tea bag in each, noting with annoyance that he would soon have to buy more.  Again.  Did Sherlock experiment on them when he wasn't in?  He shook his head. Why did he bother? What Sherlock needed was, in fact, a house-keeper, a proper one, not poor Mrs Hudson who put up with far more than any landlady should ever have to.  He mentally added it to his list of jobs - John Watson, retired army doctor, locum GP, blogger, sometime criminal target, house-keeper. 

"Clear this up if you can remember please Sherlock."  John finished making the tea, hovered the spoon over the sink for a second before wrinkling his nose and placing it instead on the drainer.   Taking a mug in each hand, he stood on one the table near Sherlock.  "I'm out this evening." 

Sherlock's fingers squeezed tighter around his pen for a brief second.  John, often accused of seeing but not observing, felt a slight buzz of self worth, knowledge that Sherlock did listen even if he did not respond and that he himself observed far more than he was given credit for.

"A date?" Sherlock's head came up slightly, "oh, her again," he drawled in a bored tone, emphasising the 'her' as if the word was distasteful. "Third date. Did better this time. Make the most of it, John.  You won't see her again." He shot John a knowing smirk. John responded by clenching his fists so tightly it hurt.

"Sherlock," John warned. "My dates would go significantly better without your constant interference. Leave. Me. Alone." He walked briskly out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his own room, taking his steaming mug of tea with him.  Sherlock, after a seconds pause, resumed his note making.

John sat on the edge of his bed, nursing his mug of tea and trying to let go of the black mood Sherlock had created.  He really shouldn't let it bother him.  After all, he was used to Sherlock acting like a dick.  Normally he let it wash over him, all part of the  greater 'Sherlock Holmes experience', but somehow, when his focus rested on John's love life, there was a deeper sting.  One John couldn't quite put a finger on.  "This time you're wrong," he muttered to himself as he drained his mug.  Padding quietly back downstairs he   perched the mug amongst more abandoned crockery on the drainer and headed to the bathroom, determinedly ignoring the bent head of soft black curls and the pale, sinuous forearm still moving rhythmically across the paper.

 

 

"Tut, tut, John," Sherlock was slouching in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin as John crossed the room to pick his keys up from the mantelpiece.  "Only your second favourite aftershave? You're not even trying."  With a slight shake of his head and a look that was halfway between amusement and self congratulation, he watched as John bristled, waiting to see if he had raised his blogger's hackles enough to elicit a response.  He huffed a short breath of disappointment as John gave a meaningful stare at the state of the kitchen, a curt 'goodbye', and marched out of the flat. Sherlock counted the seventeen steps, assessing that he had, indeed, successfully annoyed John from the pace and severity of his footfalls.   The slight pause before John opened the door, however, was unexpected. Something to think about, analyse, deduce.  Sherlock smiled to himself and went to check on the progress of his experiment.

John stalked down the road, trying to put plenty of space between himself and that infuriating lunatic as quickly as possible.  How the hell did he know which was John's favourite aftershave anyway? _Best not to dwell on that._ More relevantly,  who the hell did he think he was?  Him and his bloody cheekbones. John swore that if he had any interest in either sex he wouldn't even need aftershave at all.  Grumpily, he gathered his coat closer around him, dragged his phone out of his jeans pocket and sent a text to tell his date he was on his way.

 

Amy was already at the table when John entered the restaurant. It had been her choice  of venue and John felt strangely uncomfortable at how the soft lighting and cosy decor reminded him of Angelo's, and Sherlock.  Pushing the unbidden vision of a relaxed and smiling consulting detective firmly to the back of his mind, John wound his way through the tables.  "Sorry I'm a little late," he smiled at her, taking off his coat and giving her a quick peck on the cheek, inhaling the enticing scent of her perfume. _I bet that's her favourite._ "I, uh, decided to walk."

"Oh, don't worry. I ordered a bottle of red. Hope you don't mind." Amy gestured towards the bottle and one empty glass, encouraging John to help himself.

"Not at all, good plan." He replied as he carefully poured a glass and topped up Amy's as well. She really was very attractive; long, dark, slightly wavy hair and an open, expressive face.  She was wearing a well-fitted floral dress that emphasised her neck and breasts and John felt himself start to relax as his eyes wandered over her and the wine slid warmly down his throat.  "Have you ordered?"  He asked, picking up the menu.

"No, not yet.  I thought I'd wait for you." She caught his eye as he brought his eyes up once again from admiring her breasts. "Seen anything you like?"

"Uh, well, I may go for pasta," John mused, before realising his error. "Oh! Mmm, yes.  Definitely." He raised his glass and took a sip, "You?"

Amy smiled playfully, a delightful blush spreading across her cheeks.  "Yes" she replied, looking up at him, her long eye lashes only emphasising the amber flecked hazel of her eyes. "I can see quite a few things I like the look of."  Hope fluttered in John's chest. Tonight wasn't going to be a disaster at all. 

He licked his lips, knowing she was watching. "Good." he murmured. "That's good.  What would you like to eat?" He watched her peruse the menu a final time, listening to the comforting chink of china, the hum of conversation, the babble of laughter and his mind and body began to slide into a feeling he could only name as 'normal'. He smiled to himself, how odd that this small window into a life of normality felt so strange, and yet so full of promise.

"I think I'll go for the Penne Giardiniera." Amy mused.   "You?"

Before he could answer, John's mobile vibrated in his pocket and his hand reached automatically to retrieve the message.  "Uh," he stopped himself, the phone squeezed in his hand under the table.  This was not the time.  Whoever it was, and his hackles rose slightly at the likely culprit, they could wait. "Carbonara for me."  His fingers twitched around the phone.  He'd just check, really quickly, after all, it could be anyone.

 

**If she orders the Giardiniera, I was right** _._

 

John punched the red key with his index finger and thrust the offending article back deep into his pocket.  Quickly, his eyes scanned the room.  He could swear sometimes that the bloody bastard followed him.  Or had him followed.  Couples, groups, laughing eating and drinking; no sign of a lurking consultant detective, but then there wouldn't be, would there?

"Everything OK?" The quiet question shook him out of his considerations and landed him firmly back at the table.

"Uh, yes, everything is..." John's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, "everything is just fine."  He raised his hand to summon a waiter so they could order, but didn't fail to notice the slight hardening of Amy's face; her assumption that everything was not just fine. Damn him! Damn Sherlock. He would not be manipulated into creating the very scenario that the man had predicted. 

Pouring them both another glass of wine, John recounted the story of a recent amusing incident at the surgery that involved him having to free the practice manager from being locked inside her own car whilst still in the car park, and listened intently as Amy discussed gossip about her pharmacy colleagues.  Their meals arrived and they continued to eat and chat, John growing more confident by the moment that he would not be returning to the flat that evening.

 

**Come home now. I need you. Bring milk if convenient**

 

Once again, John had looked at his phone almost on autopilot, opening the message as he popped another forkful of carbonara in his mouth.  No, Sherlock was not going to ruin this.  Milk? Again? What the hell did he do with it?

 

"John," the warning tone drew a slight grimace as John realised that Amy had been mid flow as he read the message. "Sorry if I'm boring you."

"God no, not at all.  Sorry.  Force of habit."

"Well, you're not working now, or racing across London with that detective friend of yours. How about just having an evening off?"  Amy's hands were gripped slightly too tightly around her glass and the way she enunciated friend was full of connotation.  Shit.

"Yes, yes of course.  Please carry on. You were telling me about the ...the..." John stopped. What had she been telling him about?

As if right on cue, his phone buzzed again. He cursed under his breath. He hadn't even had a chance to put it back in his pocket.

"It's fine. You may as well look."

 

**Forget the milk. Just come home. Please**

 

"Do you fancy dessert after?" The 'please' had stunned him slightly, but John was determined. "Or a coffee?"

"The Lake District.  I was telling you about the tea rooms at Ambleside." He didn't miss the strain of frustration in her voice and smiled encouragingly.

"Of course, tell me more."  John pushed the remaining carbonara around his plate. Somehow he appeared to have lost his appetite.

"So," Amy pressed on gamely, ignoring the less than enthusiastic fork movements on the opposite plate,  "we had just come down from the hill in the worst downpour ever, we were slipping and sliding so much.  Karen even fell at one point and got mud all up the back of her trousers and coat.  It was truly awful! Anyway, on the edge of the village was the most delightful cottage that had been converted into a tearoom. There was a beautiful gate, smoke rising from the chimney, everything. It was so homely and inviting that ...... Bloody hell!" The sudden expletive accompanied a furious glare and her own abused fork landed heavily onto her plate.  John's face told of his mortification as his phone betrayed him twice in quick succession.

"So sorry.  I'm not usually this popular," he remarked grimly, "I'll, uh, turn it off."

"Oh, just look at it! I can see you're dying to." 

 _I'm not the only one who observes_ , thought John bitterly, opening the first text with a mixture of relief, annoyance and apprehension. 

 

**Not joking. I need you**

 

Shooting his best attempt at a 'nothing of importance' eye roll at Amy's rather stoney expression, John visibly paled as he retrieved the second message.

 

**John, there's blood**

 

"I" John began hesitantly, not sure if his increased heart rate was due to intense frustration or anxiety.  He rubbed his hand through his hair then scuffed it across his mouth.  "I have to go."

"It's him isn't it? Your _flatmate_. Do you always do this? Go running as soon as he clicks his fingers?" Her voice was higher now, barely restraining herself from spitting out the words she wanted to say. 

John felt his back tense.  He was his own man, kept his own life, was no-one's puppet, how dare she even think... "Yes." He replied meekly. "Sorry. So sorry."  He fumbled in his wallet for some notes, not meeting her eyes. "Here, that will cover it.  Shall I call y... no, never mind.  Goodbye, Amy."  Reluctantly, he shrugged on his cost and walked as quickly as possible past the other diners and out of the door, his images of potential cosy evenings and heated nights immediately evaporating in the cold night air.

 

Raising his right hand to hail a taxi, he tapped out a text with his left. 

 

**On my way**

Clicking send with his thumb, John climbed into the back of the taxi that had pulled up at the kerb.  "Cheers mate. Baker Street. 221B."  Settling into his seat, the sudden buzz of a text made his heart beat a little harder.  Expecting some kind of vitriol from his abandoned date, John sighed as he pulled the phone from his pocket. Sherlock. 'He better not be on about the bloody milk again,' he grumbled as he opened the message.

 

**Thank you, John**

He stared at the screen for a few seconds. Sherlock never thanked him like that. This was odd. And, if he admitted it to himself, rather concerning.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John shook his head sadly at his empty wallet after handing over his last notes to the cabbie.  Spending a fortune to be standing alone in the cold on the kerb outside his own flat was not how he had expected his evening to go.  He paused a moment on the doorstep, key in the lock, gathering his scattered thoughts.  Who was he trying to fool? He should have known better by now. That peaceful feeling of normal just didn't last when you lived with the world's only consulting detective.

 

'Every. Bloody. Time." John let irritation mask his growing anxiety at Sherlock's perplexing texts as he reached the top stair, crossed the small landing and stomped into the sitting room, thrusting his coat onto the surprisingly empty sofa. 

'Sherlock!' There was no disguising the panic in his voice now as John crossed the room and could see into the kitchen. 'Christ. What have you done?' 

Sherlock was propped on a bar stool at the sink.  His head lowered and resting on the bicep of his right arm which hung limply over the bowl.  His left hand gripped the forearm but did nothing to stop the steady trickle of blood which had seeped through his fingers, soaked into the rolled sleeve of his shirt and, from John's immediate scan of the kitchen, had left a macabre scarlet trail from the far side of the table.

"Sherlock, look at me." He barked, striding forward, feeling adrenaline surge through his body.  He put his hand on his friend's back and the curly head raised slowly.  "What happened?"

"Lost concentration. Flask exploded." Sherlock bit out, pain and shock etched in his words and on his colourless face. 

John gently held his hand over Sherlock's bloody fingers. "Let me see." He urged. His words gentle and encouraging.  Carefully he lifted Sherlock's hand away and made an initial assessment of the injuries.  5, no, 6 lacerations. 3 deep, 3 look more superficial, need to check for glass when cleaning, blood loss is manageable - just.  "You should have called an ambulance, Sherlock.  They would have been here far quicker." A note of guilt crept into his voice.  Sherlock watched him carefully.

"You know I hate hospitals, John.  Anyway, I knew you'd come. You're my doctor, John. I trust you."

 _Another job to add to the list_ , John thought even as his mouth spoke unbidden, "I nearly didn't come, Sherlock.  I wanted to ignore you.  I'm sorry."  He shook himself into action.  "Right.  You hold your arm again.  I'll get my medical kit."

Despite the pain, Sherlock smiled slightly smugly as he watched the transition from Dr Watson to John and back to Dr Watson.  His blogger, his doctor, his only friend. He really couldn't do without him.  He gripped his arm to stem the blood, rested his head on back on his arm and waited for Dr Watson to mend him.

 

 

 

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock. Stop being such an insufferable child." John struggled with placing the final steri strips as Sherlock winced and fidgeted. 

"You're taking too long." Sherlock complained tersely. 

"I'm doing my best.  Maybe next time," John grunted, his patience waning as he attempted to cover the last of the lacerations with a dressing, "you'd be better at A&E.  I know you trust me, but I'm not the only doctor who can patch you up and I am sometimes otherwise occupied."  As his initial panic at Sherlock's condition decreased, his frustration at yet another lost night of passion due to his flatmate's exploits resurfaced.  "And," he continued, sealing the dressing in place with medical tape, "if you slept more you may have not 'lost concentration' and ruined both our evenings."

'You really liked her didn't you?' Sherlock's expression twisted for a fraction of a second with something John couldn't place.

"Yes." John replied quietly, " I did really like Amy and I think she liked me too."

"It wouldn't have lasted."

"It might have, Sherlock. It might have if you ever gave me a bloody chance."

Seeming shocked by John's rather venomous response, and wincing at the reflexive tightened grip on his forearm, Sherlock dropped his gaze. "Sorry." He muttered, the fingers of his left hand fluttering hesitantly and briefly over John's hold on his arm. Quickly he dropped his hand back into his lap and fixed John with his full gaze, "I needed you."

John felt his mouth go dry. Sherlock's vulnerable side was not something he had ever seen, not something he considered the genius to possess with his whole 'caring is not an advantage' mantra.  But, somehow, for some unknown reason, there it was, obvious under the words and behind the defiant, controlling stare; vulnerability, softness. Emotion.

It was as if Sherlock saw John deduce him.  As quickly and unexpectedly as his guard had dropped, it was back. Piercing eyes and blank face back in full detective mode. The door to his soul firmly shut. "What does it matter?" He remarked, his tone deliberately harsh to recoup lost ground. "It saves you from disappointment later."

"What does it matter?" John threw the tape across the kitchen, jerking his hand quickly away from Sherlock's skin and missing his blink at the sudden loss of warmth and contact. "Christ, Sherlock. You truly have no idea."  He scraped the stool he had been sitting on back across the floor and began to tidy away his medical kit.  "Go and sit down," he sighed, "you need to rest.  I'll clean up in here."

 

 

 

The strained atmosphere in the flat was palpable. Sherlock lay languorously, alternating between drumming his fingers on the back of the sofa and picking idly at the edges of his dressing.  Occasionally he let out a dramatic sigh and flapped his dressing gown or flopped into a different position. John sat in his chair with his eyes fixed on the tv screen as he flicked through the channels, deliberately finding the most irritating programme possible and completely ignoring the attention seeking behaviour from the sofa.

"Spit it out." Sherlock finally snarled, turning his head towards John and glaring at him. "You so obviously have something you want to say.  Save us the hours of ridiculous sulking and just do it."

John valiantly ignored the irony of Sherlock's statement and took a deep breath.  "In the restaurant, just for a moment, I felt ... I felt ... normal.  It was nice."  Again, there it was on Sherlock's face.  That unknown flash of - something.  Something John had never seen before this evening.  Suddenly he felt guilt, as if he'd said that he didn't like his life with Sherlock.  Was that what Sherlock had heard? What he had implied from John's curt words?

"Normal? _Normal_?" Came the incredulous snort in response.  No then, Sherlock had not implied anything, how could John have been so stupid.  " Normal is boring.  Dull. You really want _normal_ , John?" Sherlock's face contorted with derision and he waved his good arm in the air dismissively.  "You want to live like them? Get up, go to work, go home, put your feet up in front of the tv.  Discuss your dull day with your boring girlfriend?"  Sherlock was sitting now, he winced slightly at the pressure of the bandage over his wound as he scrubbed his hands through his dark curls and then steepled his fingers under his chin, leaning forward in his usual thinking pose.  John didn't answer, just held Sherlock's gaze across the room, tension buzzing in the air, waiting to explode or diffuse.  "No, John."  The suddenly quiet tone surprised John into staring unblinkingly at his friend.  He hardly noticed he had paused on an exhale.  "Normal isn't what we do.  It isn't _us_."

John sucked in his breath, cursing silently that it had to have been audible to Sherlock.  Sherlock's emphasis on 'us' seemed to have created a strange response, deep in his stomach.  Suddenly he couldn't feel annoyed any more.  _Blood loss_ , he thought, focusing on what he knew, what he understood.  He's acting strangely due to blood loss.  Idiot really should have called an ambulance rather than me.   He smiled weakly at Sherlock, indicating that he had won, as he always did.  "You need to drink.  I'll get  you another glass of water."

 

 

Sherlock lay back on the sofa, his arm throbbing as he settled it carefully across his stomach.  "It hurts." He grumbled.

"Well, it would really wouldn't it?" John replied fondly, placing Sherlock's water on the coffee table.  "You can have some co-codamol if you'll eat a couple of biscuits."

"OK," Sherlock sighed, "but not those frankly awful dry things you insist on buying.  God only knows why anyone in their right mind would eat them.  You know the ones I like."

Yes, Sherlock. I do." John replied with a grin, glancing quickly over the offending Rich Tea biscuits in the barrel and picking out a couple of Hobnobs. As he reached for a plate, realisation hit him; the warm feeling in his stomach reaching, growing, caressing.  This was it.  This was his normal. Their normal. It wasn't dull, boring or even predictable, but it was home. It was friendship, partnership, frustration, acceptance and ... John closed the cupboard door quickly on both the crockery and his meandering, ridiculous thoughts. His brain was obviously confused from the quick turnaround between the lust he had felt at the restaurant and his doctorly care of his reckless flatmate.

 

 

"Eat these first, then tablets." John placed the plate of biscuits on the coffee table next to the glass of water.

"No need to treat me like a child, John." Sherlock huffed.  John raised his eyebrows, "ok, ok," Sherlock replied.  "Thank you. For looking after me."

John stared at him, stunned.  This wasn't Sherlock. He was saying please and thank you all in one evening? Perhaps blood loss wasn't such a bad thing after all.  Maybe there was something to be said for the medieval practices of blood letting to improve the body's humours....

"Although, of course, if you hadn't gone out, none of this would have happened."  Sherlock interrupted his thoughts in his usual acerbic tone.

John snorted with laughter.  Maybe not.

 

 

 

 

"John?"

John blearily opened his eyes, "hmm?" He mumbled, sleepily rubbing the crick in his neck and wishing he hadn't fallen asleep in his chair.

"What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"Uh," he paused a moment at the unusual question. "None really now. I had hoped to be otherwise engaged. Why?"

"Well," Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, feet hanging over the arm and long toes moving rapidly.  "I thought we might go out."

"Oh god, Sherlock. Not St Barts, please.  I really don't want to be messing around with dead bodies if I don't have to be. And after last time, I'm not sure that you'll be very welcome."

"She'll forgive me.  She always does."  John was sure he saw a faint blush bloom faintly across the man's paler than usual complexion.  Odd.  Nothing usually makes him blush. Not even his often downright appalling treatment of poor Molly.  "But no," Sherlock continued, "not St Barts. I just thought we might go out, you know. Like when you go on your dates. Have a coffee, some food, a chat."

"Mm," John stretched and yawned. "Sadly you seem to have summed up my recent dating history rather accurately ... Wait. What?" He sat bolt upright and stared across the room at his supine flatmate. "That wasn't you asking me on a date was it?"  It must have been shock and his sleepy state that made his heartbeat pound in his head.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." Sherlock chided after a slight pause, his toes stilling momentarily. "I just thought we could do something you would class as 'normal'. You know, friends going out and enjoying time together."

"Right, well. OK. That might be nice I guess." John got to his feet. There had been just too much weirdness this evening, even for Sherlock's standards.

"Although," Sherlock continued, a slow smile spreading across his face, "from the fact that the same condom has been in your wallet for at least four months, it won't be too dissimilar to your 'recent dating history'."

"SHER..... No. Not discussing this. There are lines, Sherlock, you know. Ones that 'friends' don't cross. Even for you, deducing when I last had sex is way past OK....I ... You..... Goodnight." 

As he mounted the stairs, John was sure he heard a low chuckle. He didn't turn back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quickie - well, kind of ;)
> 
> I haven't written anything for about 10 years, so this is just seeing if I still can ...

John awoke with a groan.  Hot and tangled in his sheets he felt as if he had hardly slept. He lay with his eyes closed, trying to banish the vivid dreams that left him dazed and achingly aroused.  Throughout the night, the eyes locked passionately with his own had morphed from soft hazel into vivid verdigris, long dark curls becoming short as they tickled his neck and chest.  The lips that began as soft, gentle and submissive changed into plump, seeking ones, turning his skin to fire and ice as they worked over his face, neck and chest and drawing out his very soul as tongues tangled and teeth grazed.   The comfort of welcoming breasts dissolved into firm, taught pectoralis major musculature, pert nipples that drew sharp hisses and low masculine groans of pleasure as John nipped and sucked them eagerly, and below, the pliant roundness of a female abdomen flattened to firm planes, trails of soft downy hair and the sharp jut of a hip. Lower still and the warm, dark and sweet places of a woman transformed into velvet sheathed hardness echoing his own, whilst soft, hesitant, feminine fingers became long and elegant, determined in their exploring, caressing, teasing, cataloging touches that drove John wild with want.  

Trying to banish the memory and, _oh god_ , the utter need that continued to pulse in his veins and throb between his legs, John opened his eyes to rid himself from the passion in those  too familiar eyes.  Blinking he tried again to clear the vision of sparkling verdigris. No, still there. Sleepy confusion disseminated into a wave of disorienting realisation.  Verdigris. Shit. 

 

"What the fu ...?" Surging upright, grappling at sheets and modesty in a reflex response, John's chest pounded.  "Sherlock!" he cried, voice sleep-filled and edged with panic.

"I've brought you tea, John.  Sorry I startled you." Sherlock stood over him, mug of tea poised on the bedside table, those very same eyes rather too close and sparkling with interest, pupils visibly constricting as John stared on in disbelief and embarrassment, hoping the rucked sheets hid his only slightly waning state.

"Uh," he began, not really knowing how to respond to this utterly unexpected and frankly bizarre behaviour. "Thank you." He forced a wan smile, unable to think of anything else to say whilst his memories swam in the light from those mercurial eyes.

"You're welcome." Sherlock grinned in amusement as he turned and walked from the room, leaving John to sink back into his pillow and wallow in self-conscious confusion.  He would drink the tea though. He needed to.  Sherlock never made tea and, regardless of the circumstances, John was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Sherlock. How much had  he deduced from his observation? How long had he been there? Had he heard?  _Christ_ , John rolled his face into the pillow, what he might have heard, or seen, really didn't bear thinking about.

 

 

After finishing the surprisingly well-made tea, John gathered his thoughts enough to get up and get himself ready to go for a shower.  He slid his feet into his slippers, awkwardly adjusted his pyjama trousers and pulled on his dressing gown, knotting it carefully to disguise his still too obvious, and annoyingly stubborn, discomfort.  He shook his head, not wanting to have to process the reason for his continued and determined erection, picked up his clothes and mug, and padded downstairs.  Quickly passing through the kitchen where Sherlock sat, apparently looking over his notes from the previous day, John mumbled his thanks for the tea, popped the mug on the draining board and, without pausing, made for the bathroom.  He didn't see Sherlock's hands still, his eyes flutter closed or his chest rise and fall slightly quicker than usual as the swirling vision of John moaning and writhing in his sleep stole his focus once more.

 

 

Sighing with frustration and the tedium of routine, John lifted the spare towel from the rack, slightly opened Sherlock's bedroom door, flapped the top edge of the towel over the top of the door and closed it so the trapped towel hung down, covering the opaque glass panels.   He'd complained to begin with, protesting that of all the rooms in a shared flat, the bathroom should at least be private.  Sherlock had ignored his requests, although of course it was hardly his privacy that was impeded, and Mrs Hudson, when he'd asked her if they could change the internal door, had just replied with, "oh no, dear. I don't think so."  This was the compromise he had reluctantly come up with.  After all, a man needed a modicum of bathroom solitude.

As the hot water streamed over his head and down his body, John tried to relax, tried to  make sense of and justify his disturbing dreams.  Why had they changed from Amy? Obviously he could understand lustful dreams after his aborted date, but Sherlock? Really? What the hell was that about? Once again, he tried to pin it on the sudden swing from frustrated passion to doctorly care of his friend, however, that didn't reconcile the continued need curling in his groin.  Blanking his mind, John dropped his hand, gasping slightly as his fingers closed around his smooth hardness.  Beginning to work into a slow, deliberate rhythm, he lifted his head to let the water cascade over his face, trying to contain the primal groan building in his throat. Christ, he was more desperate than he thought. Steadying his now shuddering body against the cool tiles with his right hand, he pumped faster, unable and unwilling to draw out his pleasure much longer. Looking down, he watched the rivulets of water run down his chest, gather in sparkling droplets in the tangle of hair at the base of his throbbing cock, and felt the spray further tease his sensitive head, adding to the slickness his body already provided. As he lost the fight to stay silent and emitted a low, needy moan his mind began to go offline.  Increasing his speed to near frantic levels, his right arm threatening to buckle at the elbow, he began to imagine the ghost of elegant, pale fingers cover his own, keeping and encouraging his pace, he felt a shadow of warmth as a sinuous arm crept around his stomach, a long, lithe body pressing against his back.  Finally, unable to hold off the unfurling heat and tightening any longer, he felt a whisper of voice against his neck; his name uttered wantonly as he came, ribbons of semen hitting the tiled wall as he collapsed gasping onto his arm.

Exhausted, spent and panting slightly, his rebellious cock still twitching in receding pleasure, John felt a sudden spike of shame.  Sherlock. Why the hell had he just wanked off to thoughts of Sherlock? So the man was somewhat of a distraction with his ego, intelligence, obvious good looks and those bloody cheekbones.  Not to mention a rather attractive arse. Oh .... Not good.  That was a bit more than a bit not good.  John needed a girlfriend, and quickly.

 

 

Locking his recent thoughts and actions into the far recesses of his mind, John cleaned up, dried and dressed quickly.  Sherlock was still sitting at the table as he picked up two pieces of bread and dropped them into the toaster.

"Feeling better?" the detective asked, with an obvious smirk and quirked eyebrow.

"Most refreshed, thank you." John replied tightly.  It was going to be a long day.

 


	4. Chapter 4

John sat awkwardly silent across the table from Sherlock, keeping his eyes firmly on his toast and jam, "I'll, uh, just pop out for some milk when I've finished this." He muttered at length, not wanting to give Sherlock an opportunity to question his unnatural silence.

"No need.  I went before you woke up." Sherlock replied, obviously proud of himself.

 John stared incredulously.  "Good. Great."

"No need to act so surprised, John. I may not be as good at the mundane minutiae of everyday existence, but I am perfectly capable of buying milk.  Anyway, I wanted to show you that I appreciated you patching me up again, although, of course that was never in question."

John wrinkled his nose slightly but decided to accept the backhanded compliment.  "About that," he began, "how is your arm this morning? Less sore?"

"It's fine, John.  Thank you. I assume you'll want to check it."

"Later will be fine." John mumbled, focusing hard on a blob of jam on his crumb covered plate.  Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him slightly but John ignored it.  How could he explain that actual physical contact with that smooth, warm skin would just be _too much_ right now?

Sherlock sat back in his chair, lengthening his neck and stretching his long arms above his head. Before he could stop himself, John's mind had drunk in the sight of the pale skin covering that regal throat, _those moles, how I'd like to learn the position and texture of every one_ , the deep vee of milky enticement finally shrouded by a figure-hugging midnight blue silk shirt.  His pulse fluttered faster even as he vowed to text Sarah to ask if she had any single friends as soon as was humanly possible.

"So," Sherlock began, bringing his arms back down and clasping his hands together on the table in front of him, "today.  I thought we would go to the British Museum.  They have an ancient Peruvian exhibition on at the moment that contains a fascinating and unique collection of Jivaroan shrunken heads.  Some artefacts are too fragile for public display but the curator owes me a favour.  Shall we get ready?" He smiled brightly at John who was still reeling from his brain's continued sudden and traitorous deviation that, apparently, in the absence of a willing female, Sherlock Holmes offered a perfect object of desire.

"Yeah, shrunken heads.  That'll be, uh, novel."

"Excellent." Sherlock beamed, rising from his chair and walking briskly to his bedroom.  John sighed, cleared the table and padded to the bathroom.  He stared at himself in the mirror for quite some minutes.  Yes, still the same John; the same face, same lines, eyes, hair, mouth staring bemusedly back at him, so how could he suddenly be reacting so differently?  Bloody Sherlock, as if their lives weren't dangerous and complicated enough. Exciting, yes, exciting and thrilling and impulsive and bloody brilliant. But this? This was just weird.  This was not what he did.  If only his date with Amy hadn't been interrupted. In a sudden fit of pique fuelled by Sherlock's comment from the previous day, John picked out his favourite aftershave from the shelf and applied it liberally - _see what you make of that, Sherlock_.

As John pulled on his coat, deliberately wafting past his flatmate, Sherlock stared silently for a moment, eyes almost silver against his dark blue shirt and scarf.  Without looking away, he theatrically turned up his coat collar, twitched his mouth minutely, pivoted swiftly on his heels causing his coat to swirl slightly, and lead the way down the stairs.

_Touché_ , John thought, following in his elegant footsteps.

 

 

 

John insisted they took the tube.  The usual morning rush had barely receded and he took somewhat cruel delight in watching Sherlock's sour face as he was squashed, jostled and forced to sit in too close proximity to the unclean masses.  "Well," the detective grumbled as they made their way into the fresh air from Tottenham Court Road Station, shaking himself and ruffling his hands through his curls as if to rid himself of unwanted particles of contact, "that was tedious."  John chuckled quietly.

As always on entering the museum, John couldn't help but feel awed by the impressive sight of the elliptical wall surrounding the Reading Room in the centre of the Great Court.  He could almost feel Sherlock quiver with anticipation as he walked by his side.  Close by his side.  John thought for a moment, even for Sherlock's standards, this was close, he could almost feel the fibres of the Belstaff, the heat from his friend's hand as he marched across the marble floor.  Stopping the word _date_ from floating uninvited though his mind, John spoke suddenly. "So, um, shall we look at the exhibits or have a coffee first?" 

"Coffee." came the short reply.  John swallowed hard as he felt Sherlock's hand settle on the small of his back, a tingle of electricity shooting through his spine as he was propelled gently forward. "This way, John."

They settled at the end of one of the tables in the Court cafe, enjoying the warmth of the sun shining through the clear glass ceiling.  John studied his cappuccino, watching as the brown sugar melted and leeched across the foam, creating a swirl of caramel through the creamy topping, before sinking slowly then disappearing in a sudden avalanche of grains.  Across the table long, slender fingers were wrapped around another large cup and John felt a sudden flush of heat remembering his dream and shower; those same fingers wrapped somewhere else, somewhere that gave a sudden, and very definite, twitch of interest.  His instinctive cough and necessary shuffle earned him a quizzical, and slightly amused, look from Sherlock.  John ignored it earnestly.

 

 

  
The two men drank in companionable ease.   John happy to sit, relax and definitely _not think_ , whilst Sherlock appeared content examining the passing visitors and occasionally regaling John with some scathing deduction concerning one or more of them.

"Three annoying children, two pampered cats, dull but demanding husband, one - no, two - boyfriends. Not surprising really that she's forgotten to clean the smudge of sand from the village hall car park off the back of her shoe.  Maybe this time the husband will notice although I doubt it.  People are ridiculously inattentive to detail."  Sherlock winked at John, deliberately showing off as the woman in question blustered past in yellow heels and a floral trench coat.

"You're an idiot!" John grinned back at him.  For once, Sherlock seemed perfectly relaxed and happy in public, doing nearly normal things, and when they weren't on a case.  This was not an event John could pass up commenting on.  "What's that thing on your face?" he asked innocently, mischief crinkling in the creases around his eyes.

"Hmm? What?" Sherlock replied, quickly brushing his hand over his cheeks.

"Ah, my mistake.  It's a smile, Sherlock. You're actually enjoying yourself."  John chuckled and took another sip of coffee.

"Bastard." Sherlock retorted, then joined John in a collapsing fit of schoolboy giggles.

 

 

 

"What do you like, John?" Sherlock asked quietly a few minutes later, shifting his gaze from the thronging visitors straight into John's slightly bewildered eyes.

"Huh?"

"Partners, John. Attraction. What's your 'type'?" John couldn't help but watch those beautiful lips form the deliberately enunciated plosive 'p', and physically felt the blush prickle at his neck and spread swiftly over his face.  "Come on, John - do you prefer them  blonde or brunette? short or tall? curvy or athletic?" John waited for the expected egotistical and painful deduction, but it didn't come, instead, Sherlock's expression showed definite curiosity, and, unusually, a tiny trace of tension as he held John's gaze in a disarming manner.  John took a breath and turned his head towards the crowd.

"I, uh." _I don't know any more, Sherlock, with you looking at me like that, I just don't know_. "I don't think I really have a 'type'." John's hands instinctively flexed and unflexed  around his mug.

"That's good." Sherlock replied with a small smile.  John stiffened and felt his heart rate immediately shoot up, throbbing in his throat and pounding against his ribs like a bird caught in a cage.  "Makes choosing easier for you.  Shrunken heads then, let's get going."

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the awful delay. RL has been very busy! Please forgive me :)

Reeling slightly from Sherlock's abrupt non-sequitur, John followed the sweep of the Belstaff as Sherlock led the way through the corridors to the Jivaroan exhibition.  The detective positively shimmered with energy and enthusiasm as he guided John from gleaming case to gleaming case, explaining, describing and analysing as he went.  John gave in to basking in the glow of Sherlock's enjoyment, made more intense by an increasingly frequent touch felt on the small of his back or at his elbow, ostensibly to ensure John was looking at the right exhibit. John was becoming less and less sure that this was the whole reason by the moment.  Good to his word, the curator took the pair into one of the storage rooms where the more fragile artefacts were kept away from public view.  Sherlock's excitement grew more fervored, especially with one head that had been wrapped carefully in soft cloth inside a padded box.  His quicksilver eyes shone and John could almost watch the leaps in connections and meaning as the detective examined the head with his long, gentle fingers and incisive mind.  "Look, John, here," he said finally, a huge grin spreading across his face as he nudged closer to his blogger, their arms touching. "This wasn't a trophy killing.  This was murder, one of their own village. Fantastic!"

John blinked at him in wonder. "Go on then. How on earth can you know that?"

"Easy, John. The Jivaroan were very particular to shrink the heads of those they killed in raids slowly and carefully, firstly removing the skulls and then boiling and preserving the skin before heating and placing smaller stones and then sand inside them as they shrunk to preserve the facial features. This was one of the most important things for the warriors - accurate preservation of the victim.  This one though, look." He pointed to minute scratches, abrasions and stretches in the ancient, leathery skin.  "It's been rushed. Deliberately distorted.  The cheeks, see? They're slightly more bulbous than any of the other exhibits. The mouth has been sewn slightly unnaturally to change its appearance.  Definitely murder, John. Disguised as a raid victim to protect the killer.  Brilliant!" He slapped John cheerfully on the back and rushed off to inform the curator of his discovery. John stared at the empty box, awe and the warmth of pride and no little affection sweeping over him.

 

 

 

"Couldn't we just get a cab this time?" Sherlock grumbled as John lead the way to the underground station entrance.  "It was bad enough this morning, John. Look, it's positively _thronging_ with people." 

"Stop fussing, Sherlock. Anyway, if we save money on the cab fare we can get takeaway tonight."

"We can do that regardless, John. Why the sudden frugality?"

"Because we have bills to pay and I may not be getting so many locum shifts as there's a medical student doing their GP rotation at the surgery for the next month or so.  I don't want to get evicted."

Sherlock snorted. "Mrs Hudson would never evict me."  John raised his eyebrows pointedly.  "Us, John. Obviously I meant us."

 

Within two minutes of forcing their way into a carriage from the crowded platform, John was silently regretting his decision.  He was crushed against Sherlock and a handful of other people; bags, briefcases and elbows attacking him from all sides.  Unable to reach the overhead rail, he tried to position his feet for some stability and hoped for the best.  He didn't even want to consider how furious this was going to make Sherlock.  Sherlock who hated crowds, hated being patient, hated public transport.  Sherlock, whose arm had just wrapped around John's shoulders, holding John firmly against his own side.  John looked up in surprise.  "What are you doing?" he squeaked, face colouring rapidly.

Sherlock smiled beneficently, "in three minutes there is a particularly sharp corner.  It's either this, or you end up face first in that grandmother's lap." He nodded slightly across the carriage, indicating the unsuspecting woman in question. 

"Oh," John replied, "ok then." He grinned back at Sherlock and tried to relax into his firm, warm, and rather comforting hold.  _3 minutes? That corner's 3 minutes away_. John attempted not to dwell on how 'prepared' Sherlock was being.

Sherlock's apparent concern over the possibility of John landing unceremoniously on another passenger lasted well past the three minute mark.  In fact it lasted nearly the entire journey to Baker Street whereupon a rather heated and flushed army doctor stepped out of the station and into the blessedly cool air of late afternoon.  He felt relieved as Sherlock began another diatribe about the afternoons discoveries, typically relishing in his own cleverness and thus providing John with a little well needed time to gather his flustered thoughts, once again, into a semblance of normality.

 

 

 

"Well, at least we didn't have to call Greg!"  John chuckled as he pushed open the door to 221b, finally able to react normally and enjoy the reflected glory of his brilliant friend.

"Who?" Sherlock looked momentarily bemused.

"Oh, for Christ's ... _Lestrade_ , Sherlock. His name is Greg Lestrade. Deleted that again did you?"

"Of course, John. That's what I do with useless information."

"Useless? Sherlock, we work with the man on a regular basis. I even go to the pub with him!"

"Boring. Trivial. Unnecessary."  Sherlock retorted as he skipped up the stairs and bounced into the flat.

"Hmm." John didn't bother to continue. "Only you though, Sherlock, could solve a three hundred year old case on a da...uh, day out!"  John's slip didn't go unnoticed and Sherlock grinned smugly whilst retrieving the takeaway menus from the pin board.

 

 

"John," Sherlock drawled lazily from the sofa, his stomach pleasantly full, making him feel relaxed and sleepy, "my arm is hurting. You said you'd check it."

"Yup. Just give me a minute," came the reply from the kitchen. The running of water and clinking of crockery indicated that John was washing up several mugs as well as the two plates and forks from their earlier meal.  It would take John  three minutes to complete the task to his satisfaction. Sherlock sighed with impatience. 

"I think it might be bleeding again."  

"It will if you pick at it you bloody idiot." John grinned at him from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel before throwing it onto the table. Sherlock huffed slightly and dropped his arms to his sides.  "I'll be there in a second. Try not to cause yourself any more damage while I get my kit."  

 

On John's return, Sherlock stretched out his arm into his doctors lap, shirt cuff unbuttoned but still hanging at his narrow wrist.  John steadied his breathing at the implied intimate action, took the soft claret silk between finger and thumb of both hands and slowly began to roll the material up, gradually, almost reverentially, exposing the pale, warm skin hidden beneath. John cast a quick glance at his patient, anxious to see if his slightly less than steady fingers were eliciting the expected smug response. Sherlock's eyes, however, were closed, his head leaning back on the cushion, usually acerbic or eloquent mouth silent and slightly open, his long neck exposed and vulnerable. John had never seen him looking so, the only words that could describe it were 'blissed out'.  He knew the image would haunt him, return to him in full and treacherous technicolor in the dead of night, just as he knew he wanted to see the real Sherlock look like this again. And again. _Oh_.

"Everything ok, John?" The voice was low and sleepy, spoken with eyes still closed.

"Yes, Sherlock," John swallowed and cleared his throat, reaching at last for the replacement dressing. "Everything's just fine."

 

 

 

John yawned and put his book on the table next to his chair.  Rubbing his eyes and stretching, he glanced at his watch. After standing and picking up his empty mug he shuffled slowly into the kitchen where Sherlock's head was bent over his microscope, examining what looked suspiciously like fingernails. "Well, I'm all done in." John said, placing his mug in the surprisingly still empty sink. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He waited a moment, wondering if the detective had even heard. 

"John, you clearly had every intention of texting Sarah about finding a date this morning, yet you haven't done so.  What changed your mind?" Sherlock's question came suddenly and unexpectedly as his moments of true perception often did.

"I, uh, well, the day was interesting, busy. I just didn't really think about it." John admitted, wondering how it could have slipped his mind so entirely.

"You mean that you found my company stimulating enough." Sherlock replied decisively.

Yeah, all right genius."  John responded without really thinking about it. "Wait! Uh, no. Not in _that_ way, obviously." His tone was unconvincing but he couldn't find the energy to attempt to defend himself, not even in his own mind.

"Well, goodnight, John." Sherlock looked up from his microscope and quirked an eyebrow suggestively.  "Sweet dreams."

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

John sat stock still on the edge of the bed until he began to feel stiff and cold.  He couldn't remember a time when he had felt so conflicted. His sexuality had always been a shining beacon of attraction to gentle curves, ample breasts and a good womanly arse. In all his plentiful experiences he had not even once wondered about another man. Until now. Memories of his morning wake-up overwhelmed him once more, the dream and the reality of Sherlock in all his ethereal awesomeness standing over him, causing this maelstrom of ridiculous notions. Maybe this was his mid-life crisis. Not for him too-young clothing choices, fast cars and powerful motorbikes, ending a long-term relationship for a woman half his age (he snorted sullenly at the irony of this thought) or a sudden and surprising change of career; no, for him it looked like it was lusting after a high-functioning sociopathic genius with the body and face of a Greek god and a penchant for living dangerously . Fucking fantastic.  It could't be. It just couldn't. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and took a deep breath, then reached for his phone. 

 

"Sarah?" He began when a sleepy voice answered, "it's John, so sorry it's so late."

"Is everything ok?" there was a note of worry that John quickly calmed. 

"Yes, everything is fi.. well everything is alright.  Sorry again, I just needed to ask you something, but I guess now isn't really the best  time."

"Well, I'm awake now so you'd better make it worth my while! How can I help?"  John could hear the rustle of duvet and pillows as Sarah adjusted herself for their conversation.

"I need a date.  Things with Amy didn't ... work out.  Anyone in your long list of single girlfriends who may be amenable to going out with me?" He tried to make his voice light-hearted and not desperate.

"Oh, John." Sarah's sigh was as if aimed at a child who was missing something obvious.

"What?  Help me out here Sarah, please, I really, really need to meet someone and soon."

"No, John. Sorry. Not any more."

"What do you mean, 'no'? No you don't have  any more single friends? Bloody hell, I haven't been through that many...."

"Why don't any of your girlfriends ever last, John?" Sarah interrupted, determination in her voice,  "And it's not because you're not attractive because I can assure you you are."

"You bloody know why. It's him. Sherlock. It's why we didn't work out, because he's always there, interfering, getting in the way. I just need to find a way of getting him off my back." 

The sound of a hand clamping over the phone didn't quite hide Sarah's snigger. "It's not all his fault, John. Admit it, you run after him too. Amy cried on me for hours after you left her at the restaurant. She felt such a fool, abandoned mid-date so you could race across London to get to him.  It's as plain as day when you think about it, John.   Have you even seen the way you look at each other? No wonder everyone already thinks you're a couple!  It just seems to be taking the pair of you forever to realise it."

"Oh for Christ's sake, Sarah, I slept with you! How many times do I need to say, and prove, that I. Am. Not. Gay!" 

"I'm not saying that you are. I'm just saying that you and Sherlock clearly want each other. Ok, listen, let's do it this way.  If a patient who has a long-term condition came to see you, presenting symptoms that were similar to their usual ones, but that had unusual elements that you couldn't quite place, would you advise them to just carry on with the same medication as normal?"

"Of course not. I'd investigate further."

"Precisely, John."

There was a long silence, followed by a quiet, almost resigned, "oh."

 

 

 

He couldn't sleep.  As his call to Sarah finished he had heard the first soft notes of the violin drift up the stairs. Sherlock's nighttime playing was often a balm; calming irritation, soothing worries and helping him drift off into a peaceful slumber. Not tonight. Although the music was beautiful, lyrical, almost romantic John realised with a small shudder, all it was doing was making him want. Pacing his room edgily, John fought against the reality that Sarah had pushed upon him, fought against the feelings that seemed to be bursting through weakened floodgates and, most of all, fought against an urge that was bordering on a need to descend the stairs, throw himself upon the ridiculous man with the violin and get him to do something completely not heterosexual with those long, slender, limber  fingers of his.  


Not acting was something that came at a painful price to John, always a man of action and decision. Not acting meant his night was long and tortuous, alternating between pacing the room, standing with his hand on the door handle with breath held and eyes tightly shut, lying on the bed with sleep teasingly eluding him. Not acting meant that by morning he felt wrecked and confused and still bloody wanting.  He half expected, maybe even hoped for, Sherlock to make an early morning appearance again. He didn't.  Eventually John decided to face the day, pulling on his dressing gown so he could sit and have a cup of tea before taking his morning shower.

Sherlock was not on the sofa or at the kitchen table.  His door was shut so John assumed he must have decided to sleep for a change. _Lucky bugger_ , he thought as he boiled the kettle, threw out a bag of something festering and rancid smelling that was not in the agreed upon experiment area of the fridge, and smelled the milk to check nothing untoward had been done to it.

It was pleasantly quiet and peaceful as he sat in his chair sipping his tea. His thoughts meandered but always returned to the same point. Sherlock. Sherlock who, to John's best knowledge, was sleeping peacefully a matter of mere feet away.  For a moment he wondered whether to return the 'favour' that had been bestowed upon him the previous day, but he wasn't sure whether he could handle the sight of a sleeping Sherlock, much less a newly awakened one. Smiling ruefully at himself and his decidedly off-kilter thoughts, he drained his tea and walked to the bathroom.  Lost in thought, it was only as his hand touched the doorknob that he heard the water start to run.  Not sleeping. Showering. Showering Sherlock. Oh fuck.  Heart hammering, he slowly, silently and slightly regretfully, retreated to the sitting room and picked up yesterday's paper, scanning it unseeingly.

 

After ten minutes of pretending to read yesterday's news, again, the door to the bathroom opened, emitting a billow of steam, a waft of something enticing and expensive smelling and a damp Sherlock. "Good morning, John." Damp Sherlock was wearing nothing but an almost obscenely small towel wrapped low around his slender hips. John could do nothing but stare and goldfish in a ridiculous manner. "I see that a sleepless night does nothing for your intelligence. You should try relaxing a little more." He winked, John was sure, as he switched the kettle on. "You need another cup of tea, John. I'll have a coffee." With that he shimmied around the table, clutching slightly ungracefully at the loosening towel, and disappeared back into his room, shutting the door behind him.  John sighed, trying his damnedest to ignore yet another Sherlock induced erection. _Please don't let it be a sheet day. I really can't cope with that_ , he pleaded to any higher power, excluding the omnipresent Mycroft,  that may be listening and went to answer the call of the boiling kettle.

 

Sherlock, thankfully fully dressed in his usual attire of too-tight shirt and figure-hugging tailored trousers, drank his coffee in the kitchen whilst peering once more at the fetid-looking fingernails.  John, glancing up occasionally from his blogging position at the table in the sitting room, noted that Sherlock's eyes looked dark and his face rather drawn. It appeared that he had not slept either after all.  "Anything on today, Sherlock?" He asked, breaking the unusually tense silence.

Sherlock looked up and fixed his analytical gaze directly at John.  "Not sure yet. There are possible developments to investigate." The intonation of the last word sent a shiver through John. He couldn't know, could he? The very word Sarah had used, but then, it was a common lexical item in Sherlock's vocabulary, no need to be so uptight.  He hummed an unsure response and went to take his long-awaited shower.

 

 

Afterwards, John found himself staring into his wardrobe for an unusual length of time.  It seemed harder than ever before to just reach in and pull out a comfortable shirt and favourite sweater.  He couldn't quite figure out the problem at first. His fingers moved over fabric, stroking, considering. His eyes looking for colours and fit. What would go together? What would hug his chest? Bring out the blue in his eyes? Create a good silhouette? Feel nice to the touch? The warm, caressing feeling in his stomach returned. Sherlock. Good god, he was dressing for Sherlock.  Panic washed over him.  Suddenly the enveloping swirl of new, unexpected, life-changing feelings was just too much.  He needed to get out, needed to think, needed air.  Needed to reaffirm who John Watson really was.

After deliberately grabbing a shirt and jumper as randomly as possible, John dressed hurriedly and rushed downstairs, reaching for his coat. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, shock and surprise clear both in his voice and on his face.  He was standing at the end of the kitchen table, Erlenmeyer flask held up where he had been examining the contents in the light. John could barely look at him.

"Out. Walk." He knew the unhideable panic on his face would have already been analysed. Had he been deduced? "Won't be long." He made a poor attempt at cheery and 'normal' as he quickly buttoned his coat. He was nearly at the door when he heard a bellow of frustration and a rush of movement behind him, too quick for him to process.

Before John could wonder what was happening, his way was barred, Sherlock's arms caging him, hands splayed on the wood either side of his head.  As he turned, confused and heart inexplicably pounding, his senses were assailed; scent, vision, heat of proximity and, "John..." the most incredible sound. The voice deep, sincere and, John fought to justify the only words that seemed to fit, wanting. "John," Sherlock repeated, the slow, deep growl of his own name resonating within John, enveloping him in a heady mix of both anxiety and promise, "I have been so ...patient."

"Pa...patient?" John stuttered.

"Yes, John," Sherlock's smile was tender, "patient." 

"I, uh," John cleared his throat and took a deep breath. That was not helpful. His nostrils and brain now seemed completely overwhelmed by the musky, woody scent that was so undeniably masculine and irrefutably Sherlock.  He tried again. "I don't understand."

"There are signs John.  You'd be an idiot not to have noticed yourself." Sherlock slid his right arm down from above John's head and gently smoothed it over John's arm. John's breath caught and stuttered at the contact. "Exactly, John. Arousal." It sounded like he was purring now, a lion bewildering his prey. He continued his analysis, eyes holding John's, catching him in the moment, keeping him trapped and exposed.  "Elevated pulse, dilated pupils, heightened colour, rapid breathing... need I go on?"

Sherlock's head was bent so that their foreheads were nearly touching. John could feel the tickle of a few stray stands of those angelic, raven curls and knew this man could be the death of him. Sherlock still held a dominant, controlling position with one hand pressed against the door above John's head, the other held gently, but firmly, around his arm.  John could barely breath.  "Those ... those are also signs of fear, Sherlock," he panted out, helplessly.

"You are not afraid of _me_ John, only yourself, your reactions to me.  If I were to touch your skin, like this," John watched as slowly Sherlock raised the hand that had been on his arm to his face, laying his gossamer-like fingers, those fingers he had imagined taking him to paradise in the shower, the same perfect fingers that could make a violin sing like a nightingale, on his cheek, "your response would be obvious. Just. Like. That." His last words were merely whispers, close enough for John to feel the breath on his ear as he trembled, as his eyes widened further and his heart pounded even harder, as the narrow gap between them closed even further. "So, tell me John.  Are you still going out?"

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

" _So, tell me John. Are you still going out_?" John's head swam. He shut his eyes in an attempt to quiet the overwhelming stimulation of his senses; to try to think over the clamour of his pounding heart, the thrumming pulse of blood in his arteries and veins pumping adrenaline mercilessly through his trembling body. So this was it. Decision time. Flight or fight? Leave or stay? Straight or g.... "Stop thinking, John." Sherlock murmured, his fingers tracing down John's jawline soothingly, reassuringly. "You know what you want."  John's erratic breathing stuttered once more as a velvet-smooth brush of those heavenly lips fleetingly teased his mastoid process.  John's hands, until now held military stiff against the rough denim of his jeans, twitched and rose, slowly and hesitantly. It took an effort of concentration that he barely had to ensure they did not skim against Sherlock's firm buttocks. Eventually, cautiously, his shaking fingers made contact, their unusually wide and uneven trajectory meaning from one hand he found the sensation of finely-milled cloth and close stitching on the waistband of Sherlock's suit trousers, and from the other, the cool, soft texture of his silk shirt. John's favourite silk shirt. He moved the thumb of his left hand gently, pressing the silk against the warm solidity of Sherlock's waist.  Sherlock quivered minutely at the contact and John felt those lips again, held briefly against the telling throb of his carotid artery. John kept his eyes shut as Sherlock's left hand settled gently on the back of his head; those incredible fingers smoothing over the shafts of his hair before working their way under, fingertips rubbing against his scalp causing oxytocin to flood his brain and replace the heady rush of adrenalin with something approaching contentment.  He felt, rather than saw, Sherlock move his head and held his breath as their noses touched, lips moving inexorably closer, hot puffs of breath from Sherlock's mouth pressing invitingly against his own.  He still hadn't spoken. Words not forming. Was this it? Was this his decision? Maybe. Maybe it could be. 

 

"Woo-hoo, boys!"  John froze, his eyes shooting open in panic. Sherlock swore under his breath as the piercingly enthusiastic call carried up the stairs.  "You decent?"  Footsteps let them know she wasn't waiting either way.  Sherlock backed away slightly, his eyes narrowed.

"Alas, yes." He muttered to himself, smoothing his shirt and running his hands through his hair.  He narrowed his eyes at John who still hadn't moved. "You might want to step aside from the door, John." He hovered his hand near John's arm uncomfortably before sighing loudly. "What do you want, Mrs Hudson?" He shouted belligerently through the still shut door. "We're busy."

John finally moved and took a deep, steadying breath just as their smiling landlady blustered into the room, floral apron covering a purple dress and flour dusting her arms from baking. "Ooh, boys. So glad you're in." Sherlock growled and threw himself unceremoniously into his chair. Mrs Hudson tutted and shot John her 'sympathetic' look.  John managed a forced grin in return and ran his hand uncomfortably across the back of his neck.  Sherlock watched him intently, drumming his long fingers irritably against the arm of his chair. "I'm off to visit my sister for a couple of days and the window cleaner is coming tomorrow." Mrs Hudson continued, not relenting remotely on the enthusiasm front.  She waved a floury twenty pound note before setting it on the coffee table, swiping her finger disapprovingly through the layer of dust before straightening up again. "Can you pay him please as I won't be here? He doesn't like to be kept waiting." Sherlock growled again and his murderous scowl hinted that he had already thought of at least eight painful ways to dispose of either their landlady or the blissfully unaware window cleaner, John couldn't tell which.

"Of course, no problem." John responded, quickly picking the money off the table and drawing Mrs Hudson's attention away from Sherlock's death glare.  "Have a lovely time. At your sister's." He knew he wasn't quite his usual fluent self and saw her perceptive gaze flick between himself and Sherlock. Her lips pursed slightly while she brushed flour off her sleeve.

"Right then.  I'll be off.  My train is at five and I need to tidy up and pack."  Sherlock's hand movements on the chair began to slow.  "Oh, John, as you're going out, would you be a dear and pick up a parcel from the post office for me? I would go, but, you know, my hip." She patted her hip quickly in explanation.  John looked shocked for a moment before remembering he had his coat on. There was nothing for it now.

"Of course, no trouble. No trouble at all, Mrs Hudson." He glanced across at Sherlock whose hand was tight, knuckles white as he gripped the olive green leather.  His expression caught somewhere between fury and apprehension. John saw vulnerability behind the eagle's stare; Sherlock's understanding that he was not in control of this situation, his knowledge that John held all the cards and that he had played his hand completely openly and fully.  John smiled weakly, "won't be long."

 

As John turned and started down the stairs, Sherlock ruffled his hands through his hair in frustration.  "Oh, Sherlock," the birdlike landlady admonished fondly. "You two been fighting? Another tiff? Really, you need to appreciate John more. He's a good man. Good for you, if you know what I mean." She giggled girlishly, her small hand flitting over her mouth.

"Goodbye, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock retorted threateningly as he crossed the room, determinedly ushering the poor, bewildered woman out onto the landing.  "Take a herbal soother or three." Slamming the door behind her, he placed his hand on the exact spot where he had so hopefully pinned John a short time before, sighed deeply and leaned his forehead against the cold, unforgiving wood.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock snapped the curtain back into place as John disappeared from view. He had strode away from 221b with full military bearing. Upright, determined, full of purpose.  Immediately he could see his friend no longer, Sherlock jumped over the end of the coffee table and swiftly made his way into the bathroom.  Flicking on the light, he stood in front of the mirror and grinned widely before ruffling his hands through his hair, adding a quick spritz of curl enhancer to ensure it was as wild and curly as possible, then undid the top two buttons of his shirt, wriggling slightly so the sides parted, framing the base of his throat and revealing the first few inches of his chest.  Almost as an afterthought, he ensured his cuffs were done up with both of their small, round pearlescent buttons before returning to the sofa, sprawling long legs along its length and settling to read John's irksome collection of medical journals.

 

John kept his mind deliberately blank as he stepped briskly along Baker Street, breathing in the cool, fresh air.  It was only as he crossed the road and moved further from home that he allowed his brain to stutter back online. He had nearly kissed Sherlock. He had _wanted_ to kiss Sherlock. His pace slowed slightly with the knowledge that he still wanted to kiss Sherlock; wanted to run back to the flat and feel once again the soft silk shirt skimming over the warm waist of his flatmate, wanted to card his fingers through enticing curls and revel in that brush of smooth lips against his neck.  He hated to think of his occasionally interfering landlady in other than fond terms, but this was a time when he could quite easily agree with Sherlock when he offered to 'adjust' the dose of her herbal soothers.

 

There was a queue at the post office. A queue predominantly inhabited by women, not all of whom were unattractive. Of course there was _now._ John pondered the irony. There he was, awash in a sea of perfume, generous breasts and curvy bottoms and what did he feel? Nothing. Total apathy. That was unsettling enough given that only the night before he been determined he needed to meet someone, a definitely female someone to take his mind of his impossible flatmate, but the fact that his heart rate spiked at the briefest glimpse of a dark, curly, and obviously male, head as it bobbed through a group of milling people outside, made him swallow dryly.  He scrutinised the male supervisor behind the counter. Tall, slim, mid-thirties, undeniably good-looking. Nothing again. _Just Sherlock then_ , he thought with something akin to relief, whilst tapping his foot rhythmically on the tiled floor.    When it was his turn, he collected the offending parcel and began his homeward journey with a sense of rising anticipation.

 

"Thank you, dear." Mrs Hudson said with a grateful smile, her pink rubber gloves coated in foamy suds from the washing up. John carefully placed the package between the cooling racks and cake tins that stood on the chintzy tablecloth covering her kitchen table. "Oh, and would you do something about Sherlock? He's been shooting my bloody walls again."

John sighed. "So sorry. He is rather, uh, tense at the moment."

Mrs Hudson pierced him with a knowing look. "Well, I'm sure you'll be able to handle the situation."

John stared, open-mouthed for a long moment. "Have a good trip, Mrs Hudson." Leaving the kitchen, he paused for a second before slowly climbing the stairs.

 

"Mrs Hudson complained about you shooting the walls again." John stated as he shrugged off  his coat and hung it on the hook.  Sherlock was sprawled artfully on the sofa, one of John's BMJs flapped open across his chest.

"I thought you'd prefer that to me shooting _her_." he responded grumpily, eyes following John cautiously. 

John chuckled darkly. "Maybe, maybe not.  Tea?"

Sherlock sat up, curiosity piquing briefly on his face before his more usual look of condescension settled. "Please.  These are a load of rubbish, you know." He waved the  offending magazine in the air before depositing it in a heap on the coffee table. "Full of incomplete research. Don't know why you insist upon reading them."  John didn't respond immediately, instead he moved wordlessly around the kitchen preparing the drinks.  Sherlock, as usual, counted the minutes, finding comfort in registering the familiar pattern of movement and sound.

 

"Maybe you should branch out. Consulting detective and medical researcher." John said finally as he carried the steaming mugs across the sitting room. "After all, it's not far off what you already do?  God only knows what medical marvels some of your experiments could have already proven.  The flat's always full of dead body parts, you'd only need a few live ones to get you going." Sherlock didn't miss the slight flush on John's cheek as he realised just exactly what he had said.

"Investigation should always be thorough, John, and provide lots of opportunities for experimentation."  Sherlock purred, observing John through long, dark eyelashes.  John set Sherlock's tea rather clumsily on the table, deliberately not looking towards him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips before arranging his lissom frame back down along the sofa and issuing a wholly filthy groan.

"It hurts, John. I think you should check the dressing again."  John startled, more at the noise that seemed to send a direct command to his groin than the words, and perched on the edge of the coffee table as Sherlock extended his arm again, in exactly the same way as he had the previous evening. This time, however, he rested his forearm palm up on John's thigh, long fingers relaxed and slightly curled. John, his own fingers shaking minutely from the sudden pulse of heat that set every nerve jangling with excitement, fumbled with the tiny cuff buttons. He glanced anxiously at Sherlock, expecting some form of exasperated outrage at his imprecision, but was met instead by the same rapturous closed-eyed beauty that the detective had displayed the night before.  His head was tilted back; elegant swanlike neck punctuated by an Adam's apple that John felt a sudden, overwhelming, desire to kiss; and the shirt, fanning open, exposing that tantalising porcelain skin and just the promise of sparse, downy brown hair.  Taking a deep breath, John reminded himself that he was, after all, a man of action.

 

Sherlock gasped as John's fingers, still cold from the chill air, touched his wrist, his mouth falling slightly open, invitingly. Slowly, so slowly, John rolled the cuff up, inch by inch, precisely folding each turn, drawing out the delicious tension as long as he could.  Suddenly, Sherlock caught his bottom lip between his teeth and John watched, almost giddy with arousal, as the younger man let out a long, soft sigh.

The obvious ruse acknowledged, and both tea and injury abandoned, John traced tiny circles over Sherlock's pulse point, revelling in the sight of the deepening rise and fall of his chest.  "You were right, you know," he murmured at length.

"Of course I was right. I'm always right. What was I right about?" Sherlock replied in a hazy drawl, turning both his head and body and flashing open his eyes to fix John's blue with his questioning verdigris.

"I do know what I want."

"Oh?" Sherlock quirked his eyebrow smugly and eased himself towards the edge of the sofa, leaning forward.  John regarded him with a blank expression, stilling the movements of his hand and carefully concealing his inner turmoil.

"My answer is no." 

"No?" Sherlock looked bemused for a second, before his face fell and he visibly slumped slightly, dropping his gaze from John to the sofa cushion. "Oh."

John grinned, reaching his left hand around the back of Sherlock's head and finally, _finally_    tangling his fingers into the labyrinth of abundantly vigorous curls. "I wasn't going out, idiot. I'm not going anywhere." He placed the fingers of his right hand under Sherlock's chin and gently, slowly, lifted it. Leaning forward, and with an endearing, careful awkwardness in order to avoid bumping noses, he pressed his lips softly and briefly to Sherlock's.  "Better?" he whispered hotly against Sherlock's cheek.

"Mmm, improving," John felt Sherlock's hands on his shoulders, holding him in place; the warmth and thrill of anticipation thrumming again though his veins, that curl of affection blossoming once more in his stomach. "I do believe though, that my doctor's patient has been patient quite long enough." In a single fluid motion, Sherlock sat, bringing them both to an upright position and enclosing John's legs with his own so John's knees were locked between his inner thighs.  John had barely registered the intimacy of their new position when he felt that cupid's bow once, twice, skimming the corners of his mouth. He tightened his hold on Sherlock's hair as he felt himself being held closer, firmer. Sherlock trembled and moaned. Suddenly, his mouth was over John's, his panting hot breath making John forget to breathe himself. Then, Sherlock's tongue was licking, tasting, teasing his bottom lip. John's breath came at last as a short, sharp inhale, the action opening his mouth slightly, allowing Sherlock's tongue to flick tantalisingly against the tip of his own.  Sherlock shifted his hands to cup John's head, guiding their movements and leading them into a mess of heated lips, tangled tongues and tousled hair as both men sought further, deeper, more.

 

John broke first, easing away from Sherlock's frenzied, lustful kisses, slowly but surely. "Sher ... Sher ... _stop_ ," he huffed out, panting hard, their noses pressed together.

Sherlock groaned, "not good?" The tremor of his voice, low and anxious, clutched at John's heart.

"No, no. Very good," John ran his thumbs over Sherlock's cheekbones reassuringly, "incredible," he was still breathing rapidly, forcing the words out in a near whisper between breaths. "I just need to ...  move. Neck hurts. Closer would be ... good."

"Mmm," Sherlock purred the reply, a lascivious smile on his face as John settled next to him on the sofa, John's left leg pressed against his right, "closer is undoubtably good." Sherlock turned and held John's shoulders once more, leaning to pepper John's neck with soft, indulgent kisses.  John hummed as he felt Sherlock pressing him down, crowding him relentlessly backwards until they were lying, the very position heightening the intensity of the exchange; tension and desire palpably heavy in the air around them.  Sherlock lay on his side, back against the sofa, his arms bracing himself on the cushions either side of John's head, his left knee moving up until it hooked over John's right thigh, dangerously high. John shuddered at the warmth and proximity to his already hot and eager erection. Sherlock lifted his head briefly, his incandescent eyes fiery with lust before lowering himself to John's mouth again. 

 

"So, why?" John waved his hand at the space between them when they parted to draw breath and regain weakening control, "this?"  he stuttered out. "I didn't think you..." his words trailed off, unsure of how to say what he wanted to ask. He rested his hand instead on Sherlock's chest, over his pounding heart, grateful for a moment to calm his raging desire.

"Really, John, we must work on your eloquence." Sherlock sighed with a smirk.  Gently, he took John's hand and guided it lower, brushing over the planes of his lean stomach, the waistband of his finely tailored trousers, and finally pressing John's palm firmly over the warmth of his pronounced erection. As he did so, he shivered slightly and let out a contented moan that immediately reduced John's muscles to jelly. "See, John," he breathed into the shorter man's ear, "I do feel. I do want, yearn for intimacy, just like you. But for me it's only you, my greatest weakness. I need you, John."

"I...  You too." John sighed and palmed his hand gently, curiously, against the responsive bulge, Sherlock shifting his hips eagerly into the pressure.  "I'm still not gay." he mumbled unconvincingly but with the need to cling to the last vestiges of the John Watson he had always been.

"I know." Sherlock replied, shaking his head slightly and smiling reassuringly, "and I still consider myself married to my work.  Like these ridiculous layers of clothing you insist upon wearing," he rolled his eyes as his hand fought under cardigan, shirt and t-shirt until he was finally caressing warm, pliant skin that had John closing his eyes and biting his lip, "we have layers ourselves, our minds, our personalities, beliefs.  We are not set entities.  We shift, change, adapt to our surroundings, our companions. We don't need to be defined. Just to be."  Opening his eyes, John nodded, as much in assent as affirmation before squeezing his hand teasingly over Sherlock's now straining member.  The detective let out a guttural moan, his eyes nearly black with want.  John hooked his fingers into Sherlock's belt buckle, slowly and deliberately pulling the short end free and unlatching it. As the ends fell apart, John grinned wickedly, pulling his hands away from Sherlock's twitching hips and moving instead to the buttons of his shirt.

"Best to start at the top and work my way down." His teasing words were met by a growl and Sherlock's left leg being pushed determinedly between his own, the top of Sherlock's thigh pressing firmly onto his aching cock. " _Christ_ , Sherlock." he grunted, his back arching in response, fingers barely linking to his nervous system as he tried to coordinate brain and muscles to undo each button.

Taking his time, more by necessity than choice, and ignoring Sherlock's impatient moans as he began to grind his leg against John in a circular motion, he opened the remaining buttons, each one revealing another glimpse of perfect, creamy skin.  When his shirt hung open, John flattened his palms against Sherlock's ribs and, slowly, tenderly, explored; running his fingers across the smooth ridges of his ribs, into the damp crevice under his sternum and then, finally, over the dusky nubs of his nipples. At first he brushed his fingers lightly over them, but at the sound of Sherlock's breath catching unevenly, he changed to using his thumbs, rubbing in circles as they hardened and became erect.  Sherlock hissed and suddenly both his hands were under John's layers, gripping his waist hard as he moved his leg to straddle John's hips, pressing their erections firmly together.  He loomed over John breathing heavily, a rosy flush on his face, lips swollen and eyes flashing, dangerously dark and hooded. Swiftly, John moved both hands up and out over Sherlock's shoulders, pushing the silk with them.  Sherlock immediately shirked his arms out and the shirt landed with a soft hush of fabric onto the floor.

John wriggled to enable Sherlock's frustrated and frantic efforts to remove his jumper, then shirt and finally t-shirt. "Too many clothes," the detective whined despairingly.  In the final frenzied rustle of heaving wool and cotton onto the floor, John's elbow bumped Sherlock's shoulder.

"God, sorry," John panted, quickly placing his hand over the spot. "It's a pity humans haven't evolved to fit together better."

"Some do, John." Sherlock retorted, showing no sign of discomfort and instead rocking their erections in an increasingly regular rhythm and sighing contentedly as he was finally able to sink down, skin to skin over John's stomach and chest.

"Yeah, really best if we ignore that right now." John gasped and pulled Sherlock's head down into another passionate kiss. 

 

Both men's breathing growing increasingly ragged, Sherlock's finger grip tightened into John's hips. John's hands traced down the gentle bumps of Sherlock's spine before grasping that incredible arse indulgently and then sliding his fingers slightly under the waistband of his trousers.  Sherlock let out a guttural groan, lifting his hips away from John's briefly as his hands flew to undo John's belt and jeans. Without thinking, John responded in kind.  Sherlock's belt was still hanging open so he quickly unlatched the hook and unzipped his fly, pressing inside with only a second's hesitation. The damp heat and firmness that met his hands made him hiss and lift his hips.  Sherlock moved automatically, pushing John's jeans down and and plunging his hands eagerly under the thin material of his cotton boxer shorts.  John writhed, sucking in his breath, mouthing at Sherlock's clavicle and rocking his hips in ever increasing, spiralling arousal.

Tentatively, John moved his hands under Sherlock's last material barrier to touch the nest of humid curls. Gingerly,  he moved his fingers closer, feeling a tightening in his stomach just at the thought of his first touch.  The silky soft solidity, twitching damply and eagerly between his hands was a new and unexpectedly erotic sensation.  Never had he expected to want to hold, or touch, or totally consume another man as he did now.  Sherlock, in a litany of enthusiastic moans, also began his exploration of John's already slick cock.  John groaned helplessly as talented fingers worked over his hot, sensitised skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Quickly pushing down their remaining clothes, exposing both their heated members to a thrilling chill of cool air,  Sherlock began to kiss his way down John's arching body.  John was lost in his thrall, hands grasping desperately at the fabric of the sofa.

 

"So long, John. So long". The words were an adoration, made reverently against the soft yield of John's lower belly.

The reverberation of John's sudden low chuckle caused Sherlock to shudder pleasurably before reluctantly lifting his head to examine the doctor's face. "What?" he forced out huskily, eyes hooded; dark and wanton.

"Just wondering whether you were being particularly complementary." John replied with a needy moan, canting his hips and feeling the pearls of precome trail cooly across his skin as his body responded ever more to Sherlock's utterly obvious desire.

"Hmm," Sherlock considered appreciatively, brushing his hand briefly over John's silky hot tumescence. "I was actually referring to time, John. How long I've wanted you. How long I've wanted _this_."

John refused to acknowledge the rather high pitched whimper that escaped his throat as Sherlock plunged towards him once more, this time capturing his lips only briefly before using his eager, curious tongue to plunder John's mouth with unabashed enthusiasm.  Grabbing roughly and feverishly at each other's swollen erections, they set up a relentless rhythm of bucking and grinding, arching and thrusting, hands moving ever swifter, up and down, squeezing and twisting, changing pressure, drawing foreskin up and over slick glans and sensitive frenulums.  John's vision began blurring, pulse pounding like white noise in his head, telltale tension coiling and leading inexorably towards to the only possible, inevitable outcome.  He shifted slightly, caught between need and embarrassment, as Sherlock's genius hand brought him close to the edge rather too rapidly.  Immediately,  Sherlock's other hand was on his mouth, fingers teasing their way between his lips. "It's okay, John," he heard, the panted murmur against his over-sensitised nipple, "me too."

 

All to soon, the movements of John's hand on Sherlock's cock stuttered as waves of orgasm began to crash through him. He felt Sherlock buck violently, desperately trying to keep the pressure going, too close to be able to hold back.  With a final, determined squeeze, both men were coming in a flurry of stifled cries and muffled grunts.  Shuddering and gasping, nearly sobbing into Sherlock's shoulder, John ran his fingers over the slick head of Sherlock's cock one last time as they both pulsed, the warm liquid of their ejaculates pooling stickily on his belly.

 

For a long time they lay silent and satiated, hearts hammering synchronously, breathing slowing and evening. Their limbs tangled comfortably and Sherlock rested his head on John's chest, his sweet-smelling hair tickling John's chin pleasantly. John stared at the ceiling before casting his eyes over the debauched and semi-naked man lying over and around him, sweat and semen melding their bodies together.  " _Fuck me,_ " he murmured eventually in quiet disbelief.

"I intend to."  came the sleepily husky reply.  "Thoroughly."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The BMJ is the British Medical Journal.
> 
> Well, this chapter took much longer - and is much longer - than I anticipated! Hope I've rewarded your patience as well as Sherlock's ;)


	9. Chapter 9

John was hovering. He knew it and it annoyed him. He made another pass into the kitchen and washed up his mug. It was his third time washing-up that evening. Sherlock had returned to his fingernail experiment mid-afternoon and was still there at the table, head bowed in deep concentration. It had been three hours and thirty-two minutes since he had last spoken. John had showered at length once he had eventually peeled himself away from a drowsily content Sherlock and half-stumbled into the bathroom late that morning. When he had returned, Sherlock was mixing chemicals in the sink, fully dressed but with hair still delightfully wild and messy. The image made John's heart beat faster; made him crave the sensual slide of those curls through his fingers once more, but, seeing the focus on the detective's face, he reached rather reluctantly for the kettle instead. A little later, Mrs Hudson had popped up to say goodbye, reiterating that she wouldn't be back until the evening of Wednesday, joking that she was sure they could survive without her for three days, reminding them about the window cleaner, and then making John choke on his tea and blush to the tips of his ears by commenting that she was so glad that they had 'kissed and made up' after their earlier tiff. Sherlock had ignored her completely. Now it was late and John was tired. He wanted to go to bed but wasn't sure of the protocol of such things. Would Sherlock want them to go to bed together? If he went to bed alone, which room should he go to? Did he actually want that so soon? It all seemed too confusing. Too different from what he was used to and still Sherlock gave no indication of his wishes. Frustrated with the ridiculous awkwardness of the situation he put his cleaned mug away in the cupboard.

"I'm off to bed then, goodnight." he said, still hovering uncertainly by the corner of the kitchen table.

"Sleep well, John." Sherlock replied quietly, his mind apparently elsewhere. 

John sighed quietly and turned to the door. Sherlock watched intently as he crossed the landing to the stairs to his room, a small smile on his face.

 

Sitting on the edge of his bed, John began to undress. As his hands moved over his shirt, unbuttoning and slipping it off his shoulders, he smiled, the memories of Sherlock's frenzied undressing of him that morning filling his mind. His heart beat faster, he had had no idea it could be like that. No idea that Sherlock could be like that; seducing, tender, passionate. As he flipped the duvet over him and felt the cocooning security of warm bed linen surround him, he realised all his qualms were gone. How his attraction to Sherlock hadn't occurred to him long before he had no idea. Of everyone, Sherlock knew him best, understood him more, excited him, challenged him, antagonised him. He knew what he liked and apparently what he both wanted and needed. Whatever it was they were embarking upon, he was ready. Completely. He lay quietly, listening for any signs of movement from downstairs that might indicate Sherlock had finished with whatever it was he was doing and was going to come upstairs to be with him and carry out his threat (or was it a promise?) from earlier. He shifted into the bed slightly, trying to damp down the sudden heated rush of blood coursing towards his groin. _Promise_ , he hoped fervently. No footsteps came, however, and slightly disappointedly, John succumbed to sleep.

 

He awoke with the sensation of the dipping mattress, a sudden tipping and falling feeling in his dream causing him to open his eyes and draw in his breath suddenly. He blinked at the brightness of the morning light, and then smiled as his eyes came into focus and he saw Sherlock's legs, covered by his striped blue pyjama trousers, on the bed next to him. "Good morning," Sherlock smiled, his eyes dilated and amused. "Nice to see you slept well."

John stretched and grinned, then reached his hand out from under the duvet and rested it on Sherlock's knee, gently stroking his thumb over the thin cotton. "I did, thank you. Better then I have for quite a long time."

Sherlock shuddered slightly and blinked, swallowing slowly. "I like watching you sleep." He admitted, his voice a low rumble, desire etched into his expression. "You slept too peacefully this time though. I preferred it the other morning. Watching you writhe and moan. It was .... fascinating." He looked up at John, his eyes darker, breathing heavier. "You were dreaming of me, John, weren't you?" John nodded mutely, half mortified, half excited that Sherlock had indeed witnessed him, and had enjoyed it. Sherlock covered his hand with his own, running those elegant, marvellous fingers up and down John's shorter, more solid ones. "And then in the shower? No. Don't tell me," he corrected himself, leaning forward to whisper against the lobe of John's ear. "Show me." The imperative sent waves of want through John, his wakening body reacting instantly.

 

John stood next to the bath, slightly anxious now it came to it. His hands fluttered by the hem of his t-shirt before he breathed deeply, seized the material firmly and yanked it quickly over his head. Instead of dropping it to the floor, he held it for a second before shaking it out and folding it carefully, placing it on top of the linen basket. Sherlock, already topless, his own t-shirt in an abandoned heap at his feet, shook his head with a small grin, cupped John's face with both hands and drew him into a lingering, sensuous kiss.

Agonising for a second over how this man could know exactly what to do to get him doing whatever he wanted, John soon lost both his anxiety and his inhibitions, running his hands indulgently over the smooth skin of Sherlock's slender back and quickly edging under the elasticated waistband of his pyjama trousers. Sherlock moaned and pushed his hips forward, encouraging John with the press of his erection into John's stomach. John felt Sherlock's eager hands suddenly gripping his arse, pulling them closer. He realised he was panting as he pulled away from Sherlock's hot mouth to kiss messily at his neck and clavicle. Sherlock moaned again, ferally, wantonly. "Take them off." He growled, moving his own hands to grip and pull at John's pyjama bottoms.

Seeing Sherlock fully naked for the first time only made John's desire stronger. He felt a small amount of relief at that fact, having been well trained in ignoring other male nakedness, and especially any infelicitous erections that had inevitably occurred in the closeted surroundings of army life. This nakedness was, however, glorious, as was the impressive and most certainly felicitous erection before him. He smiled fondly as Sherlock ran his hand gently down his spine while the water ran hot. John stepped over the side of the bath and under the spray. Sherlock followed close behind and drew across the shower curtain, enclosing them intimately in the rising steamy heat. "What first?" he whispered, closing his arms around John's waist from behind. The warm, silky firmness of his erection nudged enthusiastically into the small of John's back making him shiver with arousal. "Tell me what to do."

John swallowed deeply and gently unwrapped Sherlock's arms. "Okay ... okay." he took a steadying breath and stepped away from Sherlock so he was further under the steady flow of water. He stared for a long moment in total awe of the the man in front of him; his usually riotous curls straightened and plastered against his elegant head, the streaming water defining the musculature of his chest and lean stomach, running enticingly down the length of his slender legs, coating his impatient, bobbing erection and making it shine and glisten invitingly. He closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. "Just watch, for now." His voice was low and gravelly with desire. He couldn't help but grin as Sherlock inhaled sharply and leaned instinctively towards him when he took his heavy cock in his left hand, beginning to stoke and move slowly and precisely. Closing his eyes, he began to lose himself in sensation, gripping and twisting, little finger pressing right to his root between his balls on the downstroke, squeezing slightly at his crown. He groaned aloud, lifting his head into he spray and opening his mouth, flicking his tongue wantonly over his lips. He began to pump harder, finding the rhythm that he was most used to, the rhythm he had used on Sherlock. Glancing at him, he saw the man was staring intently, mouth open and panting, lust written across his whole face. John turned to face the wall, leaning forward slightly and resting on his right arm to take the pressure off his shaking legs. As he did so, he saw Sherlock grasp his own twitching member and heard his groan of relief at the touch. Slicking his thumb over the tip of his throbbing cock, John gasped. "Put your hand on mine," he breathed, "your other around my waist. That's it. _Oh, God."_ The sensation of Sherlock's hand over his was almost too much to bear, but the feel of his arm pulling him close brought the fantasy to life in a way that heightened every response. He took a moment to regain composure, keeping up the rhythm of their joined hands. "Lean forward. Rest your chest on my back." The pulsing drum of water on his back was quickly replaced with warm, wet skin and an intense, pounding heartbeat. He could feel Sherlock's panting breath on his neck, the slide of his slickened cock on his lower back and the gentle rock of his hips as he rubbed against him. This was more, much more than his flurried mind had ever conjured. "Christ, Sherlock....nnnngggghh." Sherlock's hand tightened over his and began to take control as John's started to shake, his arm tightened to hold John firmly against him as his arm and legs quivered and threatened to buckle. John's hips bucked frantically causing Sherlock to grip harder and moan against his neck. "S..sa,"John breathed urgently, fighting the rising wave of pleasure for a few seconds longer. "Say my name!"

" _John, John!"_ Sherlock grunted into his ear, holding him tighter, squeezing him harder, his breath coming out as a ragged gasp as John came with a wordless shout, pumping out onto the tiles and trickling hotly through both their fingers. John stood still, panting for a moment, relieved that Sherlock was holding him up. He could not remember ever having such an intense orgasm in his life. He blinked to steady his blurred vision and only then registered that Sherlock was still pressing urgently into his back.

Slowly he turned, still slightly unsure of his shaking legs. He took Sherlock's bowed head in his hands and swallowed at his groan from the loss of friction. "Tell me what you want," he whispered. "Tell me what to do."

Sherlock looked up at him with narrowed, desperate eyes. "Kiss me," he moaned needily. John licked his lips and glanced down slightly nervously. Sherlock smiled, "mouth first." John pulled him down, meeting that perfect open bow with his own lips and kissing enthusiastically. Sherlock tightened his arms around John's back, pulling them together and canting his hips forward urgently. John swirled his tongue around Sherlock's mouth, teasing and encouraging before sucking provocatively at Sherlock's tongue, prompting a desperate groan that reverberated throughout his body. He pulled away gently, holding Sherlock's lustful gaze with his own as he ran his hands slowly down his chest, down his sides, stopping finally at his hips. Not breaking eye contact, John lowered himself to his knees. Sherlock shuddered and rested his hands on John's shoulders as John reached out, stroking his fingers down his twitching length and wrapping them lovingly around his root. Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed as John leaned forward, his warm breath teasing the hot, wet and aching head. Tentatively, John ran the tip of his tongue around the slick, delicate glans, eliciting a guttural moan of pure pleasure from the shuddering detective. His fingers gripped harder into John's shoulders and John responded by easing his lips slowly, so slowly, over the head and mouthing gently at the corona. " _John_ , _yes_." Sherlock breathed reverently. " _God_ , _yes_." John moved his mouth lower, steadily so the unusual sensation didn't overwhelm him, keeping his focus on pleasing Sherlock. Experimentally, he flattened his tongue against the underside of Sherlock's cock, pressing the head softly against the roof of his mouth and sucking gently.

Gaining confidence, John began to suck and move more rhythmically, physically drawing Sherlock closer to the edge. He could feel and taste the salty bitterness increasing in the back of his mouth and knew it wouldn't be long. Sherlock's legs began to shake as he let out out increasingly desperate moans of pleasure, all words and clever verbosity totally subsumed by lust. He clutched suddenly at John's shoulders, his fingers gripping and digging in to his skin almost painfully, his hips stuttering. John responded by holding Sherlock tighter, stiller, quickening his pace and sucking harder, pressing the tip of Sherlock's cock firmly onto the roof of his mouth. Sherlock looked down, taking in the sight of John on his knees, water running over his firm body, dripping off his hair, the darkened head moving steadily, eagerly as he worked over Sherlock's length. He was lost. With one last, desperate grunt, he stilled, and John felt the pulse of muscle as his orgasm claimed him, swallowing wildly as the hot liquid filled his mouth. He kept moving slowly until Sherlock was spent and stroking over his shoulders, sensitivity overcoming desire. Standing somewhat stiffly, John reached his arms around the back of Sherlock's head and brought the still dazed detective down into a thorough and lingering kiss. "That," he murmured at length, "was amazing."

 

 

"I thought you might come to me last night." John said suddenly, methodically flicking through the pile of bills next to his chair. Sherlock stood behind, one arm on the back of the chair and one stroking down the front of John's t-shirt. John had been so relaxed he hadn't even gone upstairs to dress, just pulled his pyjamas back on, crossed the room in a post-lust haze and collapsed into his chair.

"I needed you to be sure." Sherlock replied quietly, kissing his ear. "Needed you to know it was what you wanted."

"I do." John replied thoughtfully.

"I know." Sherlock replied with his usual confidence. "It wasn't me that needed your feelings clarifying. But there's something else. What are you thinking about?"

"It's fine I'm sure." John sighed, concerned that he, of all people, had let himself get quite so carried away. "There's just a few things we should perhaps have discussed. You know ... _before_." He waved his hand to fill in the gaps and Sherlock chuckled quietly.

"Stop worrying, John. I'm clean. We both are."

John twisted to face him. "But I haven't been tested. Not recently." He replied, confused.

"Well ..." Sherlock began apologetically. John shook his head in disbelief.

"How the hell did you manage that? I don't even remember."

"Wednesday a couple of weeks ago. Ah ... no, you wouldn't remember." He grinned awkwardly, squeezing John's shoulders. "Tea?"

"Please." John decided quickly that he didn't want to know and shook the morning paper open, beginning to read with a contented sigh.

         

 


	10. Chapter 10

The buzz of a text woke John from a light slumber; it was unusual for him to doze in his chair during the morning. Blinking awake in surprise, he reached clumsily for his phone, nearly knocking it onto the floor in the process. Sherlock sat opposite, watching intently, his features setting into steely determination as John rubbed his hand over his eyes and pushed the phone into his pocket. "Peter's gone home sick. They need me in," he yawned as he stretched, his toes wriggling against the rug.

"Tell her no." Sherlock replied, closing the well-thumbed book on microbial necrosis he had been studying with a sharp snap. The sudden shift of air caused a sheet of scrawly hand-written notes to lift from the chair arm and float lazily to the floor. Sherlock glared at it accusingly.

"It's just a few hours. We could do with the money and it's not like we have a case. I'm sure you can occupy yourself while I'm out. Are those fingernails done decomposing yet?" John wrinkled his nose slightly at the thought of the experiment still festering away next to the bread bin. 

"Tell her no, John." Sherlock repeated testily. He uncrossed his legs and stretched them out towards the doctor, lengthening his lithe body as he rolled his hips deliberately towards the edge of the chair.

"I need to go, Sherlock. I owe Sarah a favour." Still sleepy, John blinked a few times before looking up in some confusion at Sherlock's insistence.

"But Mrs Hudson." Sherlock sighed in frustration, fixing John with a meaningful gaze. John furrowed his brow. "With her sister. In Eastbourne."

"Oh." John grinned briefly, finally understanding. "Still, I really have to go. Besides, what would I say? 'Sorry, Sarah, can't come in, I'm shagging Sherlock'?"

"Yes. That. Precisely." Sherlock smiled back wickedly, "besides, after your last conversation I'm sure she'd be delighted."

"Is there ever going to be a point at which you don't spy or eavesdrop on my every move?" John growled, rubbing his hands roughly through his hair.

"No." Sherlock replied decisively and with a small smirk after making a show of pursing his mouth enticingly in a pretence of thought. "You're really going." he noted finally, watching John's body language as he prepared to get up and get ready to leave.

"Yes. Money is a necessary inconvenience. Don't forget to pay the window cleaner." John raised himself slightly stiffly from the chair and stretched again. Sherlock drank in the brief glimpse of belly as John's shirt rode up, unwittingly teasing him. The tips of his long, slender fingers, resting on the cool, smooth leather upholstery, felt instead the soft warm yield and texture of skin and hair that had been learnt and seared into his memory at first touch.

"Screw the window cleaner." Sherlock pouted, curling himself back against the cushions and reopening his book with a deliberate and noisy rifle of pages.

"I'd rather you didn't." John giggled and rolled his eyes at the sulky detective before heading upstairs.

 

 

"Right," John shrugged into his coat and buttoned it up. "I should be done at six." He looked over to Sherlock who was still buried in his reading. "Why don't I book a table at Angelo's to make up for having to work? I'll even let him leave the candle."

Sherlock huffed, unfolded his long legs and stalked over to John. "Don't be an idiot," his tone was one of resigned exasperation, as if talking to an uncomprehending child. Gently, he took the lapels of John's coat between each thumb and forefinger, rubbing the material gently, cataloging the gauge and texture of the weave. John continued to look bemused although his pulse quickened noticeably with the almost touch. He needed to leave quickly or he wouldn't go at all. Sherlock smiled indulgently, "Eastbourne," he murmured, leaning to press a tantalisingly brief, soft kiss to the sensitive spot under John's ear. "I'll order in."

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ill today so wrote. Sorry ;)

Sarah watched John as he made himself a quick cup of tea in the kitchen before his first appointment. He was moving lightly and happily, whistling quietly to himself. "So," she began teasingly, "looking at you, I would say that you conducted those further investigations I suggested. Am I correct?"

"Uh huh," John sipped his tea, grinning and flushing as he studied the liquid in his mug.

"And?" Sarah prompted, moving over and nudging his shoulder in affectionate encouragement. "How were the results?"

"They came back positive." John smiled widely and hugged his ex briefly. "Thank you."

"That's fantastic news, especially for my friends who will no longer have to suffer the emotional trauma of trying to date you!" Sarah laughed, "seriously, though. I'm really happy for you." Glancing at the clock on the wall, she moved towards the door. "Come along, Dr Watson, your patients are waiting."

 

 

John's phone buzzed in his pocket with an incoming text, **What have you had so far?** He shook his head, he had only been there thirty minutes. 

 

**Hippocratic oath, Sherlock** he sent back, smiling regardless.

 

**Oh, please. Never been a problem before. I'll get bored otherwise. Never know what I'll get up to.**

 

Almost immediately a text came back. **Smoker, married, parent, works part time.**

 

John chuckled, **Sherlock, you can't deduce my patients.**

 

**Was I right?**

**Yes**

**Obvious. Next?**

**In a while. Next patient due. Try to do something useful.** John popped his phone back into his pocket before calling in his patient.

 

 

"I'm sorry, Mr Scrivens," John sighed, there were times he genuinely disliked general practice work, "but, as I said, you have a virus. Antibiotics will do nothing to help you improve and could make you more resistant to them in the future. What you need is time to rest. You should be feeling much better in a week or so."

"A week? I don't have time to rest for a week! It's alright for you, running around London after that weird detective but the rest of us have proper jobs you know." The man leant back in his chair and crossed his arms over his expansive chest. His jowly cheeks grew red under his patchy stubble and he coughed wheezily without covering his mouth.

"This _is_ my proper job, Mr Scrivens." John replied tightly, feeling his hands tense with frustration, annoyance and not a small amount of restrained violence at the slight to Sherlock. "Take paracetamol and ibuprofen. Come back if you're not improving after the weekend."

"We pay for this service you know. I've paid my national insurance for thirty odd years and now I get told to take painkillers that I have to buy rather than being given proper medication? No wonder this country is going to the dogs." The man huffed and stared at John who said nothing but fixed him with his most threatening smile. "I'll make sure I see another doctor next time. One who has his full focus on his patients." He levered himself slowly from the chair and shuffled towards the exit.

"Goodbye, Mr Scrivens." John glared at the door when it shut behind him, then reached for his phone.

 

**I've learnt something new and unexpected today.**

**Congratulations. What pearls of wisdom would you like to divulge?** Sherlock's reply was nearly instantaneous.

 

**People exist who are more irritating than you.** John grinned as he pressed 'send'. He was missing Sherlock and had began to wish he had sent Sarah the shagging text, his afternoon would certainly have been more enjoyable. Six o'clock just couldn't come fast enough.

**I'm never irritating. 54 seconds, John. You're slipping.**

**You really are. And what?**

**Laptop password. We clearly need to develop your imaginative skills.**

**Switch it off, Sherlock. Now.**

**Already have, not much of note. Send me another diagnosis to deduce.**

**Ok, later. Busy now. We will be discussing access to my private files on my return.** John glanced at the clock. Only three pm. Surgery hours seemed to be going much slower than usual.

 

After two more patients, John texted Sherlock again. **Young mum, just returned to work, developed contact dermatitis mostly on her back, upper arms, palms and knees.**

**Do you actually have to engage your brain to do your job, John? What did you tell her?** John could almost see Sherlock's sardonic smile and missed him even more.

**You don't complain when I'm patching you up. Probably washing detergent, but she says she hasn't changed it recently.**

**That's because you're more suited to field medicine than dealing with the vacuous lives of a hypochondriac population. Think, John. _She_ hasn't changed her detergent. Use the evidence. What does it tell you?**

John considered for a moment, trying to visualise points of contact that could work. How would someone get dermatitis in those places? Palms were a usual area, but the others? _Oh_! He grinned and tapped back a quick reply, pleased with his deduction.

**Affair with someone at work. The detergent used on their bed linen is the cause. Lots of missionary position but spends considerable time on her hands and knees as well.** John sat back and waited for the expected reply telling him that he had taken too long and that it was so glaringly obvious even an imbecile could have worked it out. The deduction made his thoughts wander to whatever Sherlock may have planned for that evening; whether they would end up in a bedroom this time, maybe Sherlock's, maybe he'd stay after whatever it was they did. Maybe Sherlock was planning to make good on his promise whilst Mrs Hudson was away. The benefits of that particular thought kept him distracted for several minutes, and it took a while for him to realise that he still hadn't had a response. He had heard nothing when his next patient came in. Or the next. In the end, he decided that Sherlock must have got involved in something that was hopefully neither corrosive or explosive and focused on his (thankfully decreasing) list and definitely not on the numerous possibilities the evening ahead promised.

The post-work emergency rush meant that John ignored the vibration in his pocket from a call. He would check his voicemail when he had a free moment. When it rang again, a minute later, he shifted in annoyance whilst checking the blood pressure of a young man who had fainted on the tube. After a thorough check up, he reassured the patient and sent him on his way. Stifling a yawn, he glanced quickly at the clock. Five thirty. Only half an hour left. He was wondering whether he had time to check his messages before calling the next patient in when there was a knock on the door.

"Come in." He called, making a mental note to chastise the receptionist for sending someone though without him calling them.

"John." Sarah's face as it poked around the door was pale, her tone worried. "D.I. Lestrade called. He asked if you could ring him back urgently."

John nodded, his heart thumping too fast in his throat to reply as he pulled out his phone and saw the missed calls were from Greg. He pressed call with shaking hands; there could be only one reason why Greg would ring him multiple times and then again on a practice line.

"John," Greg answered anxiously, his voice resembling the one he used for telling relatives bad news, "finally. Listen, uh, John .... It's Sherlock."

"What happened? Shit. I'll come straight home." John's words fell out in a breathless tumble, his chest tight, heart pounding, limbs primed with adrenalin and fear.

"No, John. St. Mary's. Get yourself to St Mary's."


	12. Chapter 12

A nondescript beige liquid rippled sluggishly in the flimsy plastic cup. The combination of that and the cup itself, which was barely distinguishable in colour from its contents, created an unappetising image worsened by the fact that the tea was by now tepid at best. John stared at it blankly. He had not touched the first, and had no intention to drink this one either. The thought alone was almost enough to make him vomit.

Internally, he was fighting. Fighting against the inability to do anything, the lack of control, the absence of information, the emptiness of the cubicle with its pale green curtain, the expanse of grey floor where the bed should be. Where Sherlock should be. He had arrived too late. Sherlock had already been wheeled away, down long corridors, with doctors who weren't him. Hot tears pricked in John's eyes, threatened to engulf and breach his eyelids at every blink. So he didn't blink, just continued staring at the insipid tea, at the dull floor. Years of experience battled within him, contradicting every thought. Part of him, he wasn't sure whether it was the rational part or not, reassuring himself that they were looking for possibilities, not probabilities. The other part, the one he was afraid to both listen to and ignore, screamed that Sherlock had been rushed into resus, his falling blood pressure indicating internal haemorrhaging; possibly considerable; possibly fatal.

The noise and the isolation were almost too much to bear. John had felt it before, this feeling of the world going on around you, regardless, as if what was happening wasn't the most important thing in the whole wide world. It was the most important thing in his whole world. It should matter, this moment, this ridiculous, terrifying event that threatened to take the great detective away from them all. Away from him. It was too soon, they had only just realised, only just begun and now ... John stood suddenly. His legs twitched with the need to do something. He would go mad just sitting there alone, waiting. The tears could wait, if they had to come at all. Now, John needed to be a soldier, a captain, a doctor.

 

He stood ramrod straight at the nurses station. A junior doctor had scurried away to try to locate the consultant dealing with Sherlock. Soldier John was not a man to be messed with. He needed information. He needed it now. Feeling a hand on his back, John felt fear turning to joy as his bewildered brain became suddenly convinced it was Sherlock who would tell him it had all been a silly mistake, nothing to worry about, and would bluster them outside to catch a cab with a parting flurry of scathing comments. He turned. Fear again. The hand belonged, not to Sherlock, but to Mycroft who looked drawn and ashen in the harsh, clinical light.

"What's going on, Mycroft?" The slight tremor of his left hand belied the calm demand. He knew the fact would not be lost on the hawklike observation of the man before him.

"Come with me, John." Not a hint of emotion played on his closed face. John shook his head in disbelief, how could Sherlock's own brother sound so detached? Silently, knowing he would get nothing more where they were, he followed.

Not saying a word, Mycroft led them through several corridors. Department names flashed past as John tried to work out where they were going; gastroenterology, paediatrics, oncology, x-ray, stroke unit, cardiology. Still they kept walking. After exiting a lift onto the second floor, Mycroft turned sharply left and through some double doors. He motioned right, indicating a spacious area with seating and large pot plants in front of a pair of sash windows. John sat at a table, gripping his knees with his hands. Mycroft lowered himself elegantly into a chair opposite. He crossed his legs and pulled at his suit jacket cuffs before clasping his hands together on the table and fixing John with an empty smile. John gripped his knees tighter, anxiety and annoyance bubbling to the surface. Taking a calming breath, he opened his mouth to speak just as a tall man with grey hair, dressed in a shirt and smart trousers approached them. The man nodded briefly to Mycroft before turning to John.

"Dr Watson," he began, holding out his hand. "I'm Dr Whitlow, I've been looking after Mr Holmes. I understand you would like a full report on his condition."

John inhaled deeply at the first confirmation that Sherlock was alive, "yes, thank you." he replied quickly, anxious as to the extent of the injuries.

"Mr Holmes was brought in with severe blunt thoracic trauma. His condition deteriorated significantly on admission, with both b.p. and sats falling rapidly, indicating potential massive internal bleeding. As you know, Dr Watson, thoracic trauma with these symptoms and a rapid heart rate is often caused by a haemothorax which we quickly established had occurred in his left lung due to rib fractures. After inserting a chest drain, we took x-rays to check the extent of the rupture and look for any other bleeds that may have indicated an urgent need for surgery. These showed that although there is bleeding in the lung, as well as severe contusions around his chest, the loss should be manageable with low-grade suction and IV plasma until clotting occurs. Medication-wise, he is on oxygen and IV saline and morphine. If his condition remains stable and the drain works, I expect he'll be released in the next couple of days."

"Thank you." John released a long breath he didn't realise he had been holding, "thank you." He blinked quickly at Mycroft who actually appeared to have a small smile before looking back at the doctor. "When can I see him?"

"You're fine to see him now, Dr Watson, although he is still quite heavily sedated. Mr Holmes can show you where. It was good to meet you. I'm sure we'll see each other again." Dr Whitlow shook John's hand again and walked away.

 

Mycroft stood and straightened his suit. "This way, John." he said quietly, the smile still ghosting around his mouth as he appraised John's emotions. "I'm sure you're keen to check him over yourself." He led John a short way further along the corridor before stopping outside a door with a narrow glazed panel. "In here. I won't come in. Someone will bring you refreshments shortly, it's late and I doubt very much that you've eaten or drunk anything since this afternoon. Goodnight, Dr Watson."

"Goodnight, Mycroft. Thank you." He knew that Mycroft's small acts of kindness were an acceptance of, and trust in, his care of his brother. The implicit understanding that Sherlock was in the safest possible hands. Maybe there was hope for the man after all.

Dr Watson moved calmly across the room, assessing his patient from the moment he cracked open the door. Sherlock was asleep, his fragile, broken body pale almost to the point of translucency. A hospital bed sheet was tucked in at his waist, leaving his upper body, raised to aid his lung function, exposed. Blood trickled through the tube between his bruised ribs into the drainage bottle on the floor. John quickly calculated the volume, but was unable to work out the loss rate as he didn't know over what time it had accumulated. He wondered vaguely whether Sherlock may need a red blood cell transfusion as well as plasma. The oxygen mask crinkled slightly at each breath, a slow, steady rate that told John the morphine and sedative was keeping the pain at bay. Next he checked the drips, looking at the flow rates, seeing how long there was before the bags need renewing. Finally, he stood by Sherlock's side, taking in the vast network of intense bruising across his chest. He could see from the patterning and depth of contusion exactly where his friend's ribs had been fractured. Anger briefly ignited in his belly. Anger at whoever had caused this unforgivable damage. Anger at himself for just not being there. He calmed himself by resting his hand on those ebony curls, watching the long eyelashes lie peacefully closed, gazing at the sharp cheekbones, bone white but still exquisite in their beauty. Blinking away the sudden rush of emotion that blurred his eyes with relief, John silently dragged a chair next to the bed, gently eased the fingers of his left hand into the gaps between the fingers on Sherlock's right and settled in to keep watch.

 

The noise was driving Sherlock mad. Filtering through the fog of his stalled brain, the repetitive bubble, crackle, huff and beep of the medical equipment was filling his head, making him unable to think in his few precious moments of wakefulness. He resented the sedation, the chemically induced calm that he once craved now only served to prevent him from fitting together the patchwork of information, memory and dulled pain. He tried to switch off, forcing his body and mind to give in, knowing this was a fight he could not yet win. It was then he noticed two things at once. Another sound amongst the obnoxious clatter, a soft susurration, regular and close, and a feeling of solid warmth on his hand, the skin of strong fingers nestled in protectively against his own. He smiled even before he opened his eyes. John. His sandy grey head was bowed in slumber, an empty tray of food by his side. Sherlock smiled at the man who he knew had refused to leave his side, squeezed their fingers together slightly and then relaxed back into the pillow. The noises no longer bothered him. Completing the patchwork could wait. He focused on the breathing pattern and touch of his doctor and was soon peacefully asleep once more.


	13. Chapter 13

"So, what happened?" John asked quietly, drawing small circles with his thumb on the back of Sherlock's pale hand. 

The detective groaned and shifted slightly.  He had slept, on and off, for most of the night yet still looked tired and wan.  John glanced at the drip, checking how long was left before the saline and analgesic bags needed changing.  "I would have thought my esteemed brother would have filled you in," his voice rasped and John immediately brought a glass of water to his lips.  Sherlock sipped carefully.

"Bits and pieces," John replied, placing the glass back on the locker next to the bed. "I wanted to hear it from you."

"Of course you did." Sherlock smiled although it did not reach his eyes. 

John sighed, sensing the irritation emanating from the younger man.  "It wasn't your fault, Sherlock," he reassured him, squeezing his hand gently. "You're not invincible." 

"Apparently not." Sherlock replied caustically.  "Apparently I'm now a target for lone vigilantes as an audition piece for the criminal ruling class."

"Yeah, well, this one won't be getting a callback." John grinned.

Sherlock couldn't help but quirk his lips.  "No. I suppose not."

"Go on then.  Tell me. I need to know exactly what that bastard did to you, just in case I ever meet him in a dark alley. Or anywhere for that matter."

"Mmm." Sherlock replied absently, his pupils dilating slightly, "Captain Watson. I like it." he paused as if caught out by his response, then lowered his gaze and took a steady breath before speaking again. "I was checking the decomposition rates of the fingernail experiment when the doorbell went.  I ignored it the first time but then remembered the bloody window cleaning money.  The ring was longer, harder the second time." Glancing up at John, Sherlock winced briefly from either the effort of speaking or remembering, John couldn't tell which. When he continued both his face and tone were stony and emotionless.  "The door was pushed forcefully as I unlatched it, knocking me off balance. He used an iron bar, swung it hard against my chest.  Too quick. I took the full force. On the way down I realised I still had the flask with sulphuric acid in my hand, I threw it in his face but he managed to get a couple of well-aimed kicks in before he ran off in agony, deliberately leaving me so incapacitated I had no chance of chasing him.  I was stupid, John. Stupid not to even _think_ this was a possibility."  Sherlock stared straight ahead, his focus somewhere behind the incongruous print of a ship in full sail on the opposite wall.

"How the hell could you have predicted that?  Mycroft said it was a kidnap attempt.  He wanted to show what he could do. Sell his services to the highest bidder.  He was completely off radar, Sherlock. Not even your homeless network had any idea."

"But I should have reacted John. It was no more than luck that he didn't get away with it.  And then ..." ripping his hand from John's, Sherlock closed his eyes. "I need to think." he growled.

"Right. Well, right." John sighed tiredly. "I'll just get some fresh air then."

 His hand on the door handle, he looked back at the bed, at the still form of Sherlock locked away in his mind palace before closing the door softly behind him.

 

 

John lowered himself tiredly onto a seat at a deliberately different table to the previous evening, his body aching in resentment at its hours of enforced inactivity and upright hospital chairs.  He was staring out of the window at the grey and murky skyline when Mycroft appeared opposite him. _Deja vu._   "There's something he's not telling me," he said without preamble.

Mycroft didn't speak for a moment, instead he watched as John tellingly rubbed his aching leg.  "Of course there is," he replied at length, giving John the same incredulous 'how can you be so stupid?' look that he had received from Sherlock on too numerous occasions to remember.  Mycroft sighed at the necessity to explain himself. "He feels," he paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully, "compromised."

"Compromised?" John repeated, equally incredulous. "Arrogant sod can't expect to know everything every time."

"No, John. By you."

"Me?" John almost shouted. This was ridiculous. What the hell did the man mean? "I wasn't even bloody there."

"Exactly." Mycroft replied calmly. "You weren't there. My dear brother will be feeling that he was distracted. Unable to anticipate his assailant due to his preoccupation with thoughts of you." He spoke as if the entire thing were a totally alien concept, which, John considered through his building annoyance, it most definitely was.

"So it's my bloody fault he's lying there like that now is it?" John bit out tersely through gritted teeth, his hands clenched, eyes sharp and slightly too bright.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly, narrowed his eyes and murmured something that John couldn't quite make out. "What he won't tell you is that he is relieved. My brother is many things John. What he is not, is good at sentiment," his mouth made the word seem unpleasant, almost distasteful, as if it stuck in his craw to actually voice it.  John almost hoped it did. "Emotion is not an easy companion for us, as you must be aware. But, whatever this 'thing' is between you, it is affecting him; changing the way he thinks.  What he is mostly relieved about, John, is that you were _not_ there. That it was he that opened the door; he that was attacked and not you."

John blinked. "That's ridiculous," the words stumbled out of his mouth in disbelief.

"As is what you will never admit to him. That being your guilt over going to the surgery.  Your fear that it _was_ your fault. That if you had been there you could have done something to stop him from ending up here, like this."

John stared grimly at the ever-composed man opposite, too tired to try to come up with a suitable response; too aware of the almost forensic dissection of his harshly felt guilt, of the irony that such a phlegmatic man could do so. "You need to move on. Both of you. Sort it out quickly or you will be more vulnerable than you ever have before."  Mycroft stood as soon as he had finished speaking and strode off down the corridor, his umbrella tapping out every other step on the cold, hard floor.

His leg ached. John stretched it out under the table and rotated his ankle slowly.  "Bastard," he grumbled under his breath and approached Sherlock's room.

 

 

"I'll go to the surgery when I need to. You'll go off wherever you go when you need to and we will be no more, or less, at risk than ever before." John stood squarely at the foot of Sherlock's bed, speaking before the man had even acknowledged his presence.

 "Mycroft," the detective snarled, opening his eyes and fixing John with a determined stare. "What did he say? That I let my guard down? Because of you? That I have become a victim of emotion, unable to operate at my normal level?"

John made a face, telling Sherlock all he needed to know, "he also said I felt guilty for leaving you and insisting on working. That I felt what happened to you was partly my fault. He was right. I did.  But it can't work like that. I won't let it."

Sherlock studied John's expression a moment longer before smiling. "Luminous as ever. Come here, John."  John moved around the bed. Standing close, with his legs against the metal frame, he stared at the darkly angelic halo of ebony curls pressed against the stark, white pillow and wondered whether there was ever a better description of the dichotomous genius. "My brother may believe he's the clever one, but he's an idiot if he doubts you. He also missed my main concern about the incident."  Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's furrowed brow and raised his hand to guide John's head down to whisper, his words feathering teasingly against his ear, "Eastbourne, John. The timing couldn't have been worse. When can we go home?"

Before John could protest about chest drains, fractured ribs, pain relief or recovery times, Sherlock had drawn him into a searing, and probably painful, kiss that held every guarantee that Dr Watson would be once again dealing with a most impatient patient.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ridiculous delay! I have written some other short fics in the meantime, but have been desperate to get back to this!
> 
> I thought after all the trauma there should be some fluff. So here is fluff, oh, and porn.
> 
> I am off tomorrow to spent time with Benedict Cumberbatch in a tent in Wales. Twice. It should be a fun experience. See you on the other side!
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is for darlingben who had an utterly monstrous day yesterday, and for EnduringChill who has very politely reminded me a couple of times to get on with it! Thank you both for your friendship and support. :)  
> ____________________________________________________________________

"They should have released me yesterday." Sherlock grumbled with a slight wince as he lowered himself into the back of the taxi.

"Your own fault," John replied, biting back a smile. "Perhaps if you hadn't announced the affair of the senior reg with the consultant's wife in front of said consultant you may have been.  I was quite impressed with his perfect retaliation."

"Shut up."  Sherlock set his mouth into a firm line, closed his eyes and ignored John the entire journey home.

 

Once back at Baker Street, John muttered with annoyance as he watched Sherlock pull himself painfully out of the taxi having refused any offer of assistance.  He muttered again at being left to pay, as usual, and followed Sherlock up the stairs and back into the flat.  It felt strange, walking though the door. Almost as if the previous seventy-two hours had never happened. Everything was exactly as it had been left, the only signs had been the smashed glass of the flask still glinting in the carpet of the hallway downstairs, and the remnants of Sherlock's fingernail experiment spread across the kitchen table.  Sherlock frowned. "Ruined," he grunted, taking a sharp breath and holding his hand to his ribs. "Have to do the whole bloody thing over now. Too much time elapsed between recording the results.  Can't extrapolate from what I had already gathered." He was walking around the table, his gaze fixed on the table.  As he reached out to pick up one of the Petri dishes, John cleared his throat with intent.

"Sherlock,"  his voice was determined. His doctor tone. "Bed. Now."

Sherlock's head shot up, eyes glinting hazel and blue in the bright light of mid-afternoon. He grinned, pulling his lips back wolfishly, the joyful lines that John so loved to see forming around his eyes and mouth. "I thought you'd never ask."

John sighed.  "Sherlock." he began shooing the detective towards his room. "You're just out of hospital after a vicious attack. You have fractured ribs and had a potentially fatal haemothorax. You are going to bed to rest and recover."

"I'm perfectly alright, John.  I've done nothing but lie in bed for nearly three days. I'm bored."  Sherlock spun and glared at John, who was holding out his pyjamas. His face was set, his eyebrows raising slightly only as he watched Sherlock trying to hide the obvious pain as he unbuttoned and removed his shirt.

 

"Right." John announced, placing a pile of books and a laptop next to the recalcitrant man who was propped up against the plumped pillows of his bed. "I'm popping to the shop. Drink your tea, eat the sandwich and I'll be back as soon as possible. Do not leave this bed, and no antagonising the leaders of small countries just to annoy your brother.  Understand?"

"I'm not a child, John. And I'm not hungry."

"Eat it." the doctor glared at his patient before turning to the door.

"And what if I need to use the ..."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John cut him off with a shout as he shut the door behind him.

 

 

John was deliberating over which bacon to buy when his phone vibrated for the first time.

**Come home immediately.  Mrs Hudson is back and I'm drowning in her overbearing guilt.**

He chuckled at the message on the screen, and then put the phone back into his pocket without replying.  It was another ten minutes before it vibrated again.  Sherlock was obviously more tired and pained than he was letting on.

**If I am forced to eat yet another homemade biscuit I swear I will not be responsible for my actions.**

A mother with a toddler in the seat of the trolley gave John a worried look as he laughed out loud in the dairy aisle.  This time, he replied. **Five minutes, Sherlock. Do try not to upset her too much.**

 

 

Mrs Hudson swept John into a breathtaking hug as he entered the flat.  Her eyes were teary and John wasn't quite sure if it was guilt, or Sherlock, to blame.  Gently and kindly, he placated the poor woman as quickly as possible and sent her back downstairs.

"Survived without me then?" John called cheerily as he tapped on Sherlock's door and entered without waiting for a response.  The body on the bed turned towards him and glared accusingly.

"Barely." Sherlock grunted. "The woman is totally insufferable. I had to tell her I needed to sleep. She took my laptop, closed the curtains and tucked me in. Tucked me in, John!"

John giggled and sat on the edge of the bed, placing a small bundled cloth on the floor next to him.  "How are you? Be honest." he ran his hand down Sherlock's arm, making a quick check of the glass wound as he did so.  Sherlock shivered slightly at his touch.

"Much better since the tablets you gave me.  Thank you." his voice was quiet, the velvet baritone sliding over and through John like molten chocolate.

"I'm not surprised it doesn't hurt much anymore," he replied, squeezing Sherlock's fingers, "you've had enough painkillers to tranquillise a horse."

"Hmm. Ketamine.  Could be a viable option." Sherlock grinned, his eyes darkening, his lips pink as he ran his tongue over them.  "Anyway John, it's only pain. My chest is clear, the fractures and bruises will heal. In your own inimitably eloquent phraseology - it's all fine."

"You're still injured, Sherlock." John used his free hand to brush an errant raven curl from Sherlock's forehead before bending and kissing the place it had laid tenderly.  "You need time to heal properly." he reached down and picked up the bundle off the floor, then pushed up Sherlock's t-shirt and settled it over the worst of the bruising. Sherlock shuddered as the cold hit him.  "Ice." John explained simply. "It will help the bruising go down quicker." he ran the palm of his other hand over Sherlock's chest and stomach, noting the bruising, feeling the soft brush of short hairs that tickled his skin, paid attention to the rise and fall of Sherlock's steady breath. 

"Do you know what the worst of it is?" Sherlock asked, his head leaning back into the pillow as his senses processed the heat of John's touch and the cold of the ice pack, creating a delicious tension of goosebumps and shivers.

"No, but I expect I soon will." John lifted the tea towel briefly, checking how cold and wet it had become before placing it back at a slightly different angle.

"The main problem with all this John, is that I was in hospital for approximately sixty eight hours. That is roughly the same amount of time that I had planned to fuck you into next week."  The pressure on the ice pack increased slightly before John looked up into hooded, wanton eyes.

"Well," he quipped, his voice only cracking slightly, " I'm not sure about that, it is still only Thursday. Technically, that's not next week ..."

"Shut up, John." Sherlock moaned, pulling him down into a needy, messy and breathtaking kiss. "Christ, I want you. I don't care how much it hurts," he mouthed wetly against John's neck as they both regained breath.  Suddenly, he jerked back with a surprised "oh!" his eyes darker, his chest heaving. John looked worried for a moment, checking to see if he'd hurt him, but the signs on his face were not pain but pleasure. Pulling back slightly, he could see a thin trickle of water running from the ice pack, down Sherlock's chest to the crease of his hip.  His cock twitched as he took in just how much Sherlock had enjoyed the sensation.

"Sherlock," he muttered, following the dewy path with a light fingertip. "If I try something, can you stay very, very still?" he looked up, his tongue darting out to his bottom lip. Sherlock, pale, bruised and battered as he was, could not have looked any more beautiful or arousing in that moment. He furrowed his brow, his curiosity piqued, more so by his not knowing what John planned to do.  Finally, and silently, he nodded, his breathing quickening and dark lashes nearly covering his lustful eyes as anticipation increased desire. "Close your eyes," John whispered, watching as they fluttered closed almost immediately.  He adjusted the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama trousers, pulling them lower so they sat just below his hips, the dark hairs at his groin teasingly visible.  Removing the tea towel containing the ice from Sherlock's chest, he carefully opened it up, taking out one of the cubes.  Placing his right hand gently on Sherlock's sternum to remind him to stay still, and to lessen the startle, he touched the ice to Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock flinched slightly and made a small noise in the back of his throat but kept his eyes firmly closed. 

Slowly, so slowly, John began to move the ice, drawing in languorous patterns against the smooth, almost translucent skin. His breath hitched as he watched its path; watched the glint of water, the twitch of muscle, the forming goosebumps and stiffening of the downy hairs.  He moved it around the rim of Sherlock's belly button, across his appendix scar, in widening and lessening circles before running it down the crease of his hip.  Sherlock groaned, his fingers spreading across the sheets, his body tense in his effort not to move. "More." he breathed, drawing the word out long and seductively.

The ice cube had nearly melted and John smiled as the last tiny piece trickled away under the thick elastic waistband, making Sherlock shudder with want. Expertly, John pulled the trousers off, his mouth and body aching with want at the sight of the eager erection bobbing free.  He licked his lips and picked up another cube of ice.  "Keep your eyes closed, and keep very still." he reminded, his voice little more than a rough whisper. Popping the cube into his mouth he bent over, taking in Sherlock's hot cock and swirling his tongue and the ice around the silky tumescence. 

"Fuck!"  Sherlock shouted, his hips bucking very slightly, "God, John, yes!" John hummed a chuckle and set his hands on Sherlock's hips as a reminder to keep as still as possible.  Seconds later, Sherlock bucked again, moaning loudly as the heat and cold set his senses on fire.  John pulled off and spat the cube inelegantly into his hand.

"If you're going to keep moving, I'll stop." He tried to keep the grin off his face at the sight of the debauched beauty that gazed at him, desperately shaking his head and muttering almost incoherent apologies. 

Sherlock's head sunk back into the pillows, his fingers gripping into the sheets on either side of his body, "please, John," he begged, "please."

John returned the ice and worked him quickly, knowing the man was desperate for release. He bobbed and swirled, sucked and licked, moving his head and tongue to keep the ice in motion over the inflamed flesh.  The sensation in his mouth was incredible and he couldn't keep from moaning causing Sherlock to cry out, his own almost constant sounds turning loud and desperate.  The ice melted and John was about to pull off to reach for another when Sherlock's hands clamped into his hair. "Don't stop," he panted, "don't you fucking stop now."  It was as much of a warning as John was going to get, he swirled his tongue around the increasing bitterness at the tip before taking in as much as he could, sucking and flattening his tongue as Sherlock's grip intensified, his hips shaking violently with the effort of not bucking mercilessly into John's mouth.  He cried out loudly and John felt the rhythmic pulsing at the base of his cock before his mouth was almost overwhelmed with salty bitterness.  He kept his mouth moving gently, working Sherlock through the last of his orgasm before finally pulling off and panting wildly. "Here," Sherlock grunted, chest still heaving.  He saw John's look of concern as he drew him up the bed. "I'm alright, John." He kissed him hard, John whimpering as Sherlock licked around his mouth, tasting his own release.  Hot, throbbing and damp, his hands flew to his belt, quickly undoing his trousers and pulling them and his boxer shorts down in one swift, rough motion. Removing his left hand from Sherlock's face, he gripped his aching cock and immediately began a relentless pumping rhythm. The sound of his soft gasps and the slick slide of skin melded with the sounds of their breathless kissing. "Stop!" Sherlock grunted suddenly pulling away from John's mouth, his fingers touching his arm. John looked at him in concern. "I'm fine," Sherlock panted, shaking his head and smiling reassuringly. "I just. I want to watch."

The thought alone nearly pushed John over the edge, he had been so close as it was.  He took several deep breaths to draw himself back from the precipice before moving slightly and angling himself so Sherlock could see clearly.  He didn't look up, meeting those fathomless eyes would have undone him immediately. He began again, trying to move slowly at first but it was a lost cause, his cock, aching and desperate, determined the pace; faster, tighter, harder. Twisting, stroking, pumping. Pumping, pulsing, spilling. He cried out at his hot release coated his hand and Sherlock's chest and stomach. Only then did he look up, his eyes met by ones full of wonder and affection.  Sherlock's arms closed over him, pulling his exhausted body into a warm embrace.  "That," he said, "was a truly impressive idea."

John chuckled sleepily, "I have another," he panted, his breathing still returning to normal, "for next time."


End file.
